"Regenesis"
I1407 Graymalkin Lane. The gothic castle that Charles Xavier calls home stands alone in Westchester County as a hallmark of a bygone era. On a surface level the house has remained unchanged or renovated for nearly a hundred years. The stone gargoyles on each corner of the roof taunt passersby, its brick walls set neatly and the gravel driveway that connects the property to the road makes sure that no conversation is fully heard or understood.
Unbeknownst to the outside world Xavier's manor has undergone drastic change for the last fifty or so years. It began in the early seventies when, after taking in several orphaned children as a foster home where they would be given an at-home education, the building slowly morphed from a home into a school. After those children left Xavier continued to reinvigorate the mansion for students of a different, more gifted sort, who at one point or another, Charles would have considered himself to be a part of.
Born in 1946, Xavier had discovered he had a knack for reading people's thoughts from a very young age, which he then very quickly learned that nobody else could perform such a feat. If he only faintly listened, the voices sounded like they were speaking underwater, but if he focused his hearing he could more or less listen to entire conversations play out within somebody's mind.
After years of unspoken torment from his stepbrother Charles began to isolate himself more and more, focusing on his studies in medicine and genetics. He wanted to help people, yes, but he also wanted to find a cure for the disease that had caused such emotional wreckage to his mind. All of that changed in 1968 when Charles had his lottery number pulled.
Fortunately he had already completed degrees in both medicine and genetics, so he was more useful to the army as a doctor than a soldier, but it did put a damper on his search for a cure. During his time in Vietnam however, Xavier met a dozen or more people with supernatural abilities, different to his own in ability, but similar in power and intensity. He attempted to befriend them, friend and foe alike, but was largely unsuccessful due to the still ongoing conflict. Eventually the war ended and Xavier was on his own again. But he knew that he wasn't alone anymore and ceased searching for a cure. He wanted to find more people like himself and bring them together.
Upon returning to New York, Xavier once again renovated the school in secret, building a gargantuan complex beneath the house made entirely of an antimonial-lead alloy, which made it impossible to track on radar or through x-rays. At the centre of the underground compound was the largest room, Cerebro, which amplified Charles' telepathic powers to cover the globe. He used it to scour the mind of every human being on Earth to try and find as many people he could with extraordinary abilities such as he did. Unfortunately, a wound he sustained during the war meant that he was slowly losing the use of his legs, until eventually he couldn't walk. This was the greatest hurdle he had yet to come across and put a stop to his search indefinitely.
Now, some forty years later, Charles Xavier lives with a group of mutants that he calls his students in that very same house on Graymalkin Lane in Westchester County. He teaches them about art and music, history and English, and everything else that comes in between, including how to fight.
IIAn apocalyptic skyline. Fallen skyscrapers litter the ground of what used to be New York City. Fires burn as far as the eye can see and lasers beam across the sky, red and green, igniting more infernos as they hit their targets. Or so it would seem.
A group of four heroes, clad head-to-toe in black leather uniforms, stand together in a circular formation. They're surrounded by humanoid robots, built with metal endoskeletons left exposed to the elements. At the forefront of the circle is the group's leader, Cyclops, who shoots fiery red beams of concussive energy from a visor that sits along his brow. He keeps two fingers on his right hand fixed upon a circular dial on the side of the visor, right above his temple, which controls the intensity of the blast. Ebbing and flowing as needed. One of the other teammates, Nightcrawler, teleports around the robots, taking them by surprise, as much as an inorganic unthinking machine can be surprised. Cutlass in hand, and sometimes in tail, he slices the automatons into pieces, taking heads, limbs and on occasion splitting them right down the middle. By Nightcrawler's side is Colossus, his skin made from some sort of organic metal, impervious to attack. His natural armour allows him to destroy the attackers with his bare hands, by way of brute force and shear strength.
In the desolate futuristic landscape, the heroes stand side by side, destroying the androids one by one. 'Colossus, keep in formation!' Cyclops demands as he blasts another robot into oblivion.
'Yes, captain!'
'I'm not your captain, Peter!'
'Aye aye, captain! I will not make this mistake again!' Colossus replies as Cyclops shakes his head in a strange mix of confusion, disappointment and humour.
On the outskirts of the group flies a lone warrior, Firebird, her candy red hair flowing in a telekinetic rage. With the swift motion of a hand she swipes a dozen robots into the air without even touching them before they crash back down to the earth in an instant. She raises an outstretched hand into the air a moment before crumpling it into a fist as several more of the machines are crushed at the chest, rendering them completely unfit for combat. It becomes abundantly clear that she is the most powerful member of this superhuman gang.
Both parties press towards the same target; an outpost, a small tower, suspiciously less decrepit than its environs. With the immediate threat to their lives mostly quashed, the leather garbed team sprint to the obelisk, taking cover amongst the rubble as more lasers fly past them, scorching the ground they land on. Just beside the encampment, a separate squadron of androids attempt to scale the building. Cyclops uses his concussive beams to blast through the robots in a single arcing motion, sending a dozen or so droids hurtling against the dark auburn sky. Firebird floats above the tower, clearing a path for the rest of the team to start their assault. As she focuses all her attention on the robots below her she doesn't see the stray plasma beam blasting towards her from a distant building. It clips her shoulder, sending her tumbling out of the sky until she lands on the ground with a thump and a groan. Had she landed a few inches to the right she would have been impaled on an exposed metal bar. Fortunately her suit takes the immediate damage from the blow and she remains relatively unharmed, but it will certainly bruise the next day; if there will ever be one.
'Jean! Are you alright?' Cyclops calls after her.
'I'll be fine, just keep moving forward!'
So they do; Cyclops, Nightcrawler and Colossus close in on the tower, with Firebird, after returning to her feet, holding off their sixes. In the distance another wave of androids approaches, sprinting towards the outpost. Colossus picks up enormous hunks of rubble, fashioning them into a makeshift baseball and pitches it towards the nearing horde. Nightcrawler teleports inside the spire thwarting any incoming attacks with the swishing sword and manners of a swashbuckler, tormenting the robots as they attack with pithy pirate-themed insults. Living deep within his own delusions, he fails to notice one of the machines sneaking past him, hiding under the cover of shadows along the edge of the tower. The droid, holding a long spear-like object, slams it into the floor, piercing a hole right through the concrete building, before immediately being cut in twain by Nightcrawler, who mumbles to himself, "Uh oh," before teleporting to join the rest of the group.
'We may have a small issue, mein freund.'
'What do you mean?' Cyclops questions him.
The tower starts to crumble before their eyes. The top of the spire falls to the ground, right in front of their feet as the walls split down the middle. A giant metal hand springs forth from the ground, followed by a second as something enormous lifts itself from beneath the earth. In the event that the machines no longer had access to satellite information they had built these outposts so that they could be seen from a distance; even further with the aid of telescopic vision. The obelisk was in fact not an outpost, but a land marker to the whereabouts of the sentry guardian. A much larger android, some thirty feet taller than the rest, now stands before them and begins to turn the tide of war. 'Alright team,' Cyclops commands, 'I want everyone to focus their attacks on the big fella', understood?'
With their plan laid out, they begin their offensive. Nightcrawler teleports onto the arm of the behemoth and using his sword severs the fingers at the knuckle from its giant metallic hand in a single swipe. Cyclops fires optic blasts at the monster's neck in an attempt to behead the giant. Firebird, bringing her hands together, nearly clasping them, causes an insurmountable buildup of tension to begin welling within the hollow chest of the android. Rivets fly from the metal seams with a whizzing sound as the implosion of pressure grows close and closer. Colossus on the other hand continues to battle the smaller robots in an attempt to hold them off.
Turning his back to the metal goliath, Colossus is picked up in the one good hand that it has left as it starts to crush him with immense strength. Clenching its fist, Colossus writhes in pain and lets out a primaeval scream. His teammates stop dead in their tracks. No more fighting.
The simulation dissipates and reveals a huge, empty room, built with bright metal panels, floor to ceiling. High above in the air, Colossus is held by a massive armature which could be most accurately described as a metal mannequin. It lowers Colossus to the ground softly and lets him go. He brushes himself off as his skin returns to flesh.
'What the hell was that Peter?'
'I was trying to help.'
'Come on Scott, there's no need to be so aggressive,' Firebird interjects.
Cyclops rests his forehead in the palms of his hands, rubbing at his face as if to massage the anger out of him. 'I know, I know. But I need you to start listening to me. When I tell you to focus on the big one, you do it. Maybe try to take out its legs or something.'
Colossus nods his head in understanding. 'Okay. I will try.'
'That's all I'm asking.'
Nightcrawler, never wanting to be left out, asks a poorly timed question, 'What do we do now?'
Everyone stands there, still in their circular formation, in total silence for a few moments. Firebird crosses her arms in unspoken disappointment, kicking the ground with her toe a few times before Cyclops breaks the ice. 'Lunch?'
IIIHank McCoy sits alone in the living room of Xavier's mansion reading a book, A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, it says, embossed on the leatherbound cover. His royal blue fur coat that covers him from head-to-toe makes him stand out, as you would expect, amongst the greys and whites of the room. He had lived here with Professor Xavier the longest and, by all rights, was the most accomplished among the students in the academic world. Hank does not take part in the physical aspects of his mutant education.
His four teammates enter the room, now clad in their streetwear, ruining his peace and quiet. 'How are the new suits handling?' he asks Scott who is now wearing ruby red sunglasses in place of his visor.
'Honestly, Hank, I don't think I have worn less comfortable clothing in my life,' Jean replies, her red hair looking more orange in the natural light.
'Come on, they can't be that bad.'
'They're restrictive. I feel like I can't breathe when I'm in it,' Scott says drying his hair.
'Not to mention, they are not very fashionable,' Kurt interjects as he plays with his own tail lying belly down on the rug in the middle of the room next to Piotr, whose size is intimidating even without the enhancement of his metal exterior.
'Excuse me?' Hank asks. Jean and Scott sit down on the couch next to each other, resting her head on his shoulder.
'The style. There is no flare, there is no… pzazz.'
Hank stops completely, closing his book and resting it on the side table. 'They're training suits. Your field outfits have both style and comfortability. The trainers are deliberately restrictive, so that in a real fight, you don't have to work as hard as during training.'
'You don't think that's a bit unnecessary?' Scott asks. Everyone sits there quietly as Hank throws his hands into the air out of frustration at both the question and the perceived attacks on his intelligence. Scott turns to Piotr and Kurt, still lying on the ground, 'Did you guys have TV back home?'
'Television?' Kurt replies quizzically, eyes fixed on the cartoon he's currently watching, 'No, but we did have a cinema.'
'Oh wow, that's fun. What movies did you see there?' Jean asks.
'None,' Kurt says rather nonchalantly, 'I would have been hanged for being there.'
Jean has a look of shame and stupidity scrawled across her face. Her hands quickly come up to cradle her head, completely inundating her eyes and mouth in her fingers. Scott pulls her hands down from her face, rubs her shoulder and mouths "It's okay."
'Back in my village in Siberia, there was no television. And we did not have electricity either,' Piotr says, the first time he's said anything to the group since leaving the Danger Room. 'But my favourite part of this country is the internet.'
'Good grief,' Hank spits, 'the internet is vile. Utterly disgusting. Have you seen how the normies act on there? Nothing but hate and vitriol. Can you imagine what they would say about us?'
'They're not all evil, Hank,' Jean says.
'Look at me, really look at me Jean and think about what they would say. Nothing good.'
'Your situation is different.'
'I thought we were trying to fight prejudice, Jean, not foster it,' Hank retorts. Everybody looks at him, mostly with an air of disgust.
'Do not put words in my mouth. You know that wasn't what I meant.'
'It was implicit.'
The atmosphere in the room changes. An almost indistinguishable difference in the molecular makeup of the electromagnetic spectrum. But not quite unnoticeable. 'Did you feel that?' Scott asks.
The TV completely cuts out, the cartoon quickly shrinking into oblivion. 'Where did the drawings go?' Piotr exclaims.
'Fuse must have blown,' Scott replies, standing up to go turn the power back on.
'I don't think so,' Hank says, 'look in the kitchen.' As all five heads pivot towards the kitchen they notice the microwave, its fluorescent green lights still illuminating the twenty-eight little lines that make up the time. The same can be said of the stovetop and the coffee machine. The power is still on and now the TV is too. Covered in static, everybody returns their eyes, focused solely now on the screen. And from it comes a voice.
'People of Earth. This will be your only warning,' the deep, booming voice projects into the room with authority. It has a faintly Eastern European accent but it's muddied by the sands of time. As they await the rest of the message, an image starts to burn into the screen. A crimson bodysuit cloaked in cosmic periwinkle and a strange helmet sits kingly at the top. 'I have been called many names throughout my life. When I was born I was Erik, but my parents nicknamed me Magnus. When I was a child I was known only by a number, which was inked into my skin.. Then they called me a freak. I am the master of magnetism. I am Magneto and I am a mutant.'
The room fills with silence. Everybody sits there motionless; wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The static clears and Magneto is seen in full for the first time, much more clearly. 'I am broadcasting this message to every television set on Earth,' he continues, 'so that you might finally understand the truth of your world. For eighty years I have been subjected to thousands of tests and experiments to "better" your scientific efforts. "For the greater good" they said.' As he speaks he holds a piece of metal in his hand before throwing it into the air, where it stays, floating above his head. With only a thought the hardened chunk of ore transforms into liquid and then into a disc, spinning like a plate on a pole. 'There are millions more like me in your world who have been silenced. And their parents and their communities have too, been silenced. Kept secret by your governments, held in secret facilities across the globe. No longer. This will be our reckoning.
'To those of us who remain undiscovered: I implore that you take up your true potential and break free of the shackles placed upon you by man. Only together are we stronger. Join us,' he says, outstretching his hand towards whoever sits on the receiving end of the transmission, 'and we will build a new world for mutantkind. A better world. Join our family; our brotherhood.
'Every man, woman and child could be a mutant. Your neighbours. Your doctor. Your parents. Your lovers. Those who you trust explicitly and unconditionally with your life. To live as a mutant is to survive in fear and secrecy. To question every belief and relationship you have formed. To be human is to be feared. Mankind will endure our torment and understand our suffering. The age of humanity is over.
'Of our oppressors I ask only this: acknowledge us. Run from us. Fear us. Those of you willing to accept these terms will be spared. Rebels will not be granted the same mercies.' Magneto stands there for a few seconds, thinking carefully about his final words. 'We are the revolution.'
The screen turns to black again, Magneto's image seared into the viewer's minds. The whole world freezes, staring in unadulterated silence. The once intangible tension could now be felt across the globe, growing, faster and faster than ever before. Fundamental structures upon which society is built are about to change and the world is going to become a much darker place. The knowledge of mutantkind will be quickly subsumed into the cultural zeitgeist, immutably altering it ad infinitum.
'Holy sh–.'
'Professor!' Scott yells across the hall, interrupting Jean before she can say something vulgar.
A disembodied voice calls out to them from across the mansion, the voice of Charles Xavier, 'I can't find him. Something is shielding his mind from my powers.'
'What do we do then?' Jean asks.
'I want Hank to scour the internet in search of any mention or sighting of Magneto. I want everyone else to meet me in Cerebro.'
Hank leaps off the couch and runs down the hall on all fours, not unlike how a chimpanzee or other apes would sprint from a predator. He tries not to destroy the picture frames hanging in the corridor or the vases, busts and plants that line the walls. Headed down a perpendicular hall, the other four mutants run towards Cerebro, none of them sure what lies ahead both for themselves and mutantkind as a whole. All they know for certain is that a war is coming and they are the only conscripts.