Lorna clutched her mother's hand more tightly. As excited as she was to go up in a plane again, she was also intimidated by the density and intensity of the crowd in the airport. She feared that if she lost her parents, she'd never see them again.

Suzanna squeezed her daughter's hand in turn. She of course had no desire to lose her daughter, but she grounded herself in her daughter's grasp for another reason. Arnold had been particularly cold that morning as they'd readied for their flight. Even now, he was cold as he stared straight ahead, boring holes in the backs of strangers' heads with his gaze. She feared that a conversation she'd been dreading for a decade was finally upon her. Worse, she feared that Arnold would breach the subject in the air where she couldn't avoid it, where she had nowhere to run.

In the waiting area of the terminal gates, the crowd died down without thinning. Arnold found a lone, empty seat and sat down without a word. Suzanna sighed, then tugged on Lorna's hand. "Come on, baby. There's gotta be more seats somewhere."

The two meandered for a bit before Lorna asked, "Why is Daddy mad?"

Suzanna paused, unable to look in her daughter's eyes. "I don't know," she finally offered, which was only half a lie. She had her suspicions, but they had yet to be confirmed.

"You guys are always fighting," Lorna bemoaned aloud.

"Lorna!" Suzanna scolded in a whisper, turning on a dime to drop down to Lorna's level. "Don't say things like that in public."

"Sorry," Lorna muttered, staring at the floor. "I forgot to say it in my head."

Moisture gathered in Suzanna's eyes. She often said the same thing to herself after her and Arnold's screaming matches. She never meant for Lorna to hear it, let alone internalize it. Hearing it repeated back to her broke a dam inside her that had been cracking for some time. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and wept.

"I'm sorry," Suzanna finally managed.

"It's okay, Momma," Lorna accepted.

"No, it's not okay. Your father and I should not yell at each other the way we do, especially in front of you. I'll try harder to remember that, okay?"

Lorna sniffed back her own forming tears and nodded into her mother's shoulder.

The two composed themselves and resumed hunting for seats. When they finally found one, Suzanna sat, then Lorna jumped onto her lap and nuzzled into her arm. Suzanna stroked Lorna's flaxen hair until the PA system announced that their flight was boarding.

"My sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting," the sharply dressed man expressed.

"No harm done," Charles accepted, extending a hand.

The man took Charles's hand and gave it a single, firm shake. "Arthur Milbury," he introduced himself.

Charles retracted his hand and reciprocated, "Charles Xavier."

Arthur took his suit coat off and hung it on a stand in the corner. Without the draping garment, his impressive musculature and imposing stature shone through his white overshirt and black suspenders. He adjusted his tie before taking a seat at his desk. "So, Mr. Xavier, with what can I help you today?"

Charles could hear no forethoughts on Arthur's mind. He made a note of the fact but thought nothing further of it. After overhearing thousands of minds throughout his life, Charles had learned that some people simply had no inner monologues. "'Charles', please," he insisted without missing a beat. "I'm here to discuss a rather sensitive matter, actually."

A look of perplexion was betrayed by Arthur's unwavering smile. "Are you not here to adopt a child?"

"Well, yes, I actually am here to do that, but, you see..."

Realization appeared to wash over the top half of Arthur's face. "You're here about Scott Summers."

"Yes," Charles confirmed.

Arthur leaned back and brought his index fingers to his lips as he brought his fingertips together.

Charles studied Arthur as he allowed the man time to contemplate. He had a sharp jawline, pulled even tighter in his deep thought, and a pair of flat eyes. Not flat in dimensionality but in vibrance. His bronze skin was uncannily uniform across the parts of his body that Charles could see, and there was a small smudge on the collar of his overshirt. A sweat stain, Charles assumed.

"How is the boy?" Arthur finally asked.

"Safe," Charles answered immediately. "Safe. Sound. Deeply troubled by something I've not been able to discern."

"Are you aware of his abilities?"

"Yes, I know he is a mutant. That is not an issue for me, and I don't think it's an issue for him, either. At least, I don't believe that that is what troubles him."

"No," Arthur agreed as he turned to stare out the window. "No, I don't think so, either."

"I don't ask this as an accusation," Charles prefaced dishonestly, "but do you think it stems from his time here? I mean, he did run away."

Arthur paused as he measured his response, still peering outside. "Yes, I fear you're right." He spun back and put his elbows on his desk. "I just wish he would've come to me instead. I wish he'd known he could've come to me with whatever trouble he had."

Charles held his tongue and looked to the floor. He remembered the blurry memories of the atrocities that Scott had suffered at this facility. No one with any identifying features appeared in any of the memories, so maybe Arthur was oblivious.

Arthur leaned back, uncoupled his fingers, and let his arms fall back to his sides. "I take the lack of Scott's presence here as your lack of desire to return him."

Charles nodded. "I know it's not... standard procedure, but I would like to adopt Scott. I'm just not sure what steps to take."

"Well, adoption is normally a lengthy procedure: interviews, observations, trial periods, countless forms. Did you contact the authorities when you found Scott?"

"I didn't realize that that was something I should've done," Charles lied.

It was Arthur's turn to study Charles, and Arthur made no effort to hide it. Charles endeavored to hold his head steady.

Arthur walked around his desk, leaned against the front, and crossed his arms. "Honestly, Charles, you're at a bit of an impasse. No lawyer is going to touch you after harboring a fugitive, yet you're not willing to relinquish the child back to me. It would seem my only course of action is to contact the authorities myself."

Warren tugged at his hoodie. It was at least two sizes too big for him, yet it was tight on him. He had folded his wings as flat as he could then stuffed himself into the oversized sweatjacket, but his wings rebelled against their confinement and refused to lie flat.

"Dinner is served, Master Warren!" Stephen called out again from the dining room.

"I'm coming!" Warren insisted, pulling his bedroom door shut behind him.

An excessively long and surprisingly narrow table extended from one end of the dining room to the other. Silver cloches trapped the heat around various components of that night's menu. Warren's parents sat at opposite ends of the table, practically having to shout to communicate to each other.

Stephen pulled out a seat for Warren then pushed it in as Warren took it. "Thanks," Warren offered to the butler.

Warren's father spoke snidely as he sawed off another bite of lamb roast. "Late to dinner and you're not even dressed up. I could've forgiven your tardiness if it'd been for something sensible like finishing up a nice outfit."

"Sorry, Father," Warren submitted softly, maintaining eye contact with the cloche in front of him instead of with his father.

"Mmhm," his father hummed with a pointed eye to make his suspicion evident.

Warren sat still, waiting for instruction or further chastisement. He hated when his father prodded the tension to make it build, like a pyromaniac stoking a bonfire. He hated most of his father's mannerisms. He hated that he shared his father's name, especially when his father shared his father's name. Why would he do that? Warren III had bemoaned on several occasions. Why would he subject his son to the same confusion he suffered? Why would he condemn me to sharing his name when I'm nothing like him?

"Well, eat up," Warren Jr. finally instructed. "Our cook didn't slave over a hot stove for you to eat a cold dinner."

Warren III removed the cloche in front of him and started scooping vegetables onto his plate. "Her name is Beatrice," he muttered.

"What was that?" Warren Jr. barked.

Warren III froze, cloche and serving spoon still in hand. "I— I said, 'Her name is Beatrice.'"

"Oh, yes!" Warren Jr. concurred irreverently. The abrupt tonal shift indicated that either he didn't realize Warren III was being flippant or he was choosing to ignore the fact. He said nothing further, and Warren III resumed filling his plate.

The family proceeded to eat mostly in silence. Stephen refilled their glasses as they emptied them, a task performed without commentary other than Warren III quietly thanking Stephen whenever it was his glass being refilled.

Eventually, Warren's mom broke the silence. "You seem to be wearing loungewear like that more often, honey. Are you feeling okay?"

Warren III returned his fork to his plate. "Yeah, Mom," he assured her. "It's just, uh— I've just been cold, you know? October and all that."

"Oh, honey, do we need to turn the heat up?" In her concern, she missed Warren Jr. flicking his pupils back and forth between them through narrowed eyelids. "Stephen, would you...?" She trailed off as Stephen had already moved towards the thermostat.

"That won't be necessary, Stephen," Warren Jr. declared.

Stephen paused and asked for confirmation. "Sir?"

"Stephen, would you escort Kathryn to our room, please?"

"Warren?" Kathryn asked.

"Kathryn, Warren and I need to have a little chat, man to man," Warren Jr. insisted.

Stephen leaned in, offered his hand, and whispered to Kathryn, "Let's not make him ask us again."

Kathryn stood. She looked at her son, then her husband, then back to her son. Moisture built in the corners of her eyes, but she said nothing. Stephen led her away in silence.

Once he was satisfied that they were alone, Warren Jr. did not mince words. "How big are they?"

Warren III fidgeted in place. "Not that big. I mean, they're growing, but it's been slow."

"Bullshit," Warren Jr. retorted. "Take that jacket off."

"No."

"Son, take that jacket off!"

"No!" Warren III screamed, launching out of his seat.

Warren Jr. similarly launched up as he slammed his hands on the table. "If I've explained this once, I've explained it a thousand times! We are all the face of Worthington Enterprises! We cannot let the public find out that you're a mutant!"

"I can be careful!" Warren III insisted.

"No!" Warren Jr. denied, punching the table again. "All it takes is one slip up! Our shareholders would turn and run! We'd be on the streets!" He balled up the tablecloth in both fists as he tried to steady himself. "Oh, why can't you get it through your thick skull?!"

"Why can't I just be who I am?! Why don't you love me?!" Warren III cried.

"You ungrateful brat!" Warren Jr. seethed. "After everything I've done for you?!" He started closing the gap between them, "Get over here."

Warren III took off running. "No!"

Warren Jr. gave chase, out of the dining room and down the main hall. His son had the agility of youth, but he had the longer stride of adulthood. Seeing that he was gaining, his son pivoted into a bathroom and tried to shut the door, but he caught up in time to keep it open. "Ow!" he shouted as the door crushed his foot. "Ah, fuck!"

Warren III shrunk away instinctively in response to harming his father, but by the time he thought better of it, his father had him by the neck of his hoodie. "What are you doing?" Warren III pleaded as his father dragged him back down the hall.

"You've given me no choice," Warren Jr. explained through gritted teeth. "You're just not getting it. It's a simple concept. You let us know when your wings are getting too big, and we put you under to clip them. Do you have any idea how much money your med bay cost? I did that for you, that way we didn't have to go to the hospital every time. I did that for you."

Warren Jr. dragged Warren III through the entrance of the med bay and hoisted him face-down onto the exam table.

"Dad, don't!" Warren III begged.

"Shut up," Warren Jr. spat as he climbed on top of his son. As his son struggled under his body weight, he secured the restraints around his son's wrists and ankles. With his son trapped, he climbed down and searched frantically, pulling drawers out and spilling their contents. Finally, he found the bone saw, plugged it in, and returned to the exam table. "First, let's get rid of this fucking jacket," he sneered as he hacked it from neck to waist.

Their binding compromised, Warren III's wings burst forth. The left one struck Warren Jr. in the face, and he recoiled.

"These fucking things," Warren Jr. grumbled as he wiped blood from his nose.

"Dad," Warren III gasped through his tears. "Please put me under."

"No!" Warren Jr. snapped. "These things have got to go, now!"

Warren III searched frantically for the magic words that would make his father stop until his mind went blank. He drowned in the searing, white-hot pain of his bones breaking, a torrent of rapid-fire microaggressions against his skeleton from a row of unrelenting, metal teeth. The first wing wasn't even separated from his body before he fainted.

"They're ready for you, Mr. Xavier," the secretary called from the other side of the sliding glass window.

"Thank you, Morgan," Charles perfunctorily threw over his shoulder as he wheeled himself back to Arthur's office.

How did he remember my name? Morgan mused.

The office door opened on its own as Charles approached. He didn't remember it being automatic, but his mind had been treading water in a stressful morass for hours; he wasn't surprised he neglected such an insignificant detail.

"Charles!" Arthur greeted warmly.

A stocky man with lightly salted pepper hair stood up and flattened the front of his suit.

Arthur introduced the two. "Charles, this is Fred Duncan, FBI. Fred, this is Charles Xavier."

"Pleasure," Fred offered gruffly as he shook Charles's hand.

"Fred here is my government liaison for... various matters," Arthur explained, then he nodded to Fred.

Fred slumped back into his seat. "Not that I have to tell you two how rough it is for mutants, but basically, however bad you think the government is for mutants, double it. Arthur and I have been working together for years now, trying to smooth out the wrinkles where we can, if you catch my drift."

With his clustered mind eroding his control on his powers, Charles found himself knee-deep in Fred's mind, just past the level of forethought. He saw glimpses of documents and computer screens being filled out illegally or with less than accurate information. He felt Fred's kindness, his genuine desire to do the right thing. He felt the fatigue in Fred's soul, the weight of his age.

"Indeed," Charles confirmed.

Fred continued, "So Arthur filled me in on your situation, and I think I can help."

"That'd be wonderful," Charles reacted, "but how?"

Arthur intercepted, "You and I can actually take care of most of the documentation, Charles, but the fly in the ointment is the court hearing. Normally, every case ends with an appearance before the judge, where he approves the adoption once and for all. Obviously, that's not going to work for our purposes today, and that's where Fred comes in. Right, Fred?"

Fred smirked. "Yeah, I have some strings I can pull."

Charles's mind started to settle. He'd stewed in the lobby, trapped by armed guards. He could have incapacitated them telepathically, but the call had already been placed. Even if he had escaped, he and Scott would have been on the run. His dreams of peacefully effecting change for mutantkind would have been dashed. Now all those fears were dispelled.

Charles caught up with the present and realized the next question he should ask. "So what's the catch?"

Arthur's immortal smile widened. "No catch, per se. Simply a fee for our services."

Luckily, hush money was one catch that Charles was equipped to handle. "Certainly," Charles agreed, then he turned to Fred. "I have another request, if I'd be able to tack it on to this transaction. For a separate fee, of course."

"Depends," Fred answered.

"I need an address expunged from as many records as possible."

Fred smirked again, but there was a warmth to it. "You're in luck. That's a relatively simple process." He ripped a blank Post-It off Arthur's desk and handed it to Charles. "Write down the address for me, and I'll shred that note when I'm done."

As Charles penned, Arthur picked up his desk phone and listed off documents to Morgan.

Sound flooded back into Lorna's ears. All the noises she could perceive overlapped into indiscernible static as they vied for her attention, and they were deafening. Startled into a mild panic, Lorna vigorously rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The static softened as she woke up and ascertained her surroundings.

Suzanna was to Lorna's left, and Arnold was to Suzanna's left, in the aisle seat. The two adults were in the middle of exchanging intense whispers, and the argument was escalating in intensity and volume.

"Ten years," Arnold reflected in understated incredulity.

"What was I supposed to say?" Suzanna begged, on the verge of tears.

"Ten years you lied to me," Arnold continued. "Ten years you let me look like a fool! My wife stepped out on me, and not only did I let her stay, I kept the child! Do you know how that makes me look? Like a coward! Like a, like a," he lowered his voice, "cuck."

"Oh, Arnold."

"Don't 'Oh, Arnold' me! It was obviously intentional."

Suzanna's tears finally broke free. "That's not fair."

Lorna stood up to comfort her mother.

"Sit down, Lorna," Arnold commanded.

"Why is she crying?" Lorna asked him.

"I said, 'Sit down,' Lorna!"

"No! Why are you two always fighting?"

"No wonder she doesn't respect me," Arnold directed to Suzanna. "She's not even my daughter."

"D-Daddy?" Lorna stammered, confused and crying.

"Oh, you didn't even tell her?" Arnold chastised Suzanna. "That's rich!"

"Mom— Mommy?"

Suzanna couldn't bring herself to look Lorna in the eyes.

"I'm not your father, Lorna!" Arnold finally shouted.

All eyes in that section of the plane were on the disintegrating family. A flight attendant started towards them to de-escalate the situation.

"What?" Lorna breathed. Her question was barely audible through her disbelief.

Arnold stood up and screamed in Lorna's face, "YOU'RE! NOT! MY! DAUGHTER!"

"No! NO! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?! NO!"

All the lights in the plane shut off. The captain tapped a couple dials to verify that they'd stopped working.

"Do we have total system failure?" the copilot asked, readjusting his posture.

"Looks like it," the captain confirmed. "Fuck. We need to manually check the backup generators, the APU, and the RAT."

"Yes, sir," the copilot accepted, then got up and exited. As he left the cockpit, the door slammed shut behind him. "What the hell?" The door was bent towards him, as if some behemoth of strength had punched it from the other side.

"Lorna!" Arnold called out, his tone completely changed.

Lorna couldn't hear him now. She couldn't hear anything. She was levitating, held back only by the cabin ceiling.

Suzanna reached out for Lorna's hand. "Lorna, sweetie, come down."

An invisible pulse blasted Suzanna backwards. She crashed into Arnold, and they fell across several armrests.

Stray bits of metal throughout the cabin started levitating, too. They flew towards Lorna as directly as possible, causing passengers to duck and dodge out of the way.

Suzanna recovered from the pain in her back long enough to see green streaks creeping up through Lorna's hair. "My baby," she lamented to herself. "My poor baby."

Larger and larger items started ripping through the air. The luggage compartment lids flew open and suitcases fought their way towards Lorna. Soon, entire rows of seats were uprooted. All the debris swirled around Lorna like the rings around Saturn.

Suzanna dropped to the floor, crawled under the swirling debris, fought to her feet, and clutched her daughter. "I'm so sorry, Lorna." She knew Lorna couldn't hear her now and that she'd never get the chance to say it again, but she hoped Lorna would hear her one day.

Several fracture lines finally split the cabin open. Air rushed out and took most of the passengers with it. Other passengers found handholds or entire items to hold onto, but one by one, they fell victim to the suction force or the lack of breath. Even Suzanna fell away as Lorna slipped through her hands. Before the heart attack took her life, Suzanna gazed upon her daughter one last time. "I love you," she whispered.