Omega Mutants

"I'm not exaggerating," Charles continued. "You're one of the most promising young Mutants I've ever met. Jean Grey was nowhere near as powerful as you are at your age."

"But potential isn't everything," Russell said.

Charles nodded. "Potential isn't everything. It's only possibility. What you do with those possibilities is up to you."

He took a business card from the inside pocket of his suit and offered it with both hands. The card was plain white, bearing only a name—Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters—and an address.

"I don't need you to decide now," Charles said lightly. "But I want you to know there's a door that will always be open to you. To you—"

He glanced at Laura and Felicity behind Russell. "—and your friends."

Russell took the card and turned it over. The back was blank.

"I'll keep the card. If there's nothing else, I won't see you out."

Russell's manner had been cool but never hostile. To Scott, though, it was deeply disrespectful to the professor.

"You..."

"Scott, let's go."

Charles raised a hand to stop Cyclops from saying more, then turned his wheelchair toward the elevator. Scott reluctantly pressed the button, and the doors slid open without a sound.

Just as the wheelchair was about to enter, Charles spoke again.

"Children, I suggest you don't stay here. A new danger is closing in on you."

Russell's face remained expressionless.

Before the elevator doors closed, Charles gave him one last look.

There was surprise in that look, and scrutiny, and an understanding that seemed almost instinctive.

Then the doors met, and that gentle face vanished behind silver metal.

Russell looked down at the card in his hand.

Felicity came over from the sofa and asked cautiously, "Will we... go?"

Russell didn't answer. He tossed the card to Felicity, went into his room, and continued honing his abilities.

Absolute strength was what mattered.

Once the elevator doors closed, Scott Summers finally let out what he had been holding back.

"Professor, I don't understand." He leaned against the elevator wall with his arms crossed, his brow knotted behind his Ruby-Quartz Visor.

"We're just leaving? That boy killed how many people in the slums? A hundred and twenty soldiers, five Sentinels, and who knows how many innocent people. We didn't even tell him he had to come with us?"

Charles did not answer at once.

The elevator descended, the floor numbers changing one by one. Only the low hum of the ventilation system filled the metal car.

"What do you think we should have done?" Charles looked at Scott, his tone as calm as if he were asking a question in class.

"I think we should have taken them back by force, so another disaster like the one in the slums can't happen."

Scott's gaze was intense. "He has potential, yes, but he's too unstable. A Mutant with even greater potential than you or Magneto—if he loses control—"

"He won't," Charles interrupted.

"How do you know?"

"Because of what he did in the slums."

Scott paused.

Charles looked up at the white light in the elevator ceiling. It cast a soft halo across his bald head.

"That building was on fire. Thirty-seven people lived there. He could have saved only himself, or only the two girls with him.

"But he didn't. He saved everyone he could. Then he caught the man who started the fire—" Charles paused. "Though killing him was certainly wrong."

Scott was silent for a few seconds.

"That doesn't prove anything," he insisted, though his voice had lost some of its conviction.

"It proves everything." Charles turned to his student. "A man with the power to destroy everything chose not to.

"That isn't weakness. It's something rarer than power."

The elevator reached the ground floor. Its doors slid open, letting in the noise of the lobby.

Charles steered his wheelchair out. Scott followed, with Ororo last. Her gaze stayed on the professor's back, thoughtful.

As they stepped through the revolving door, Ororo suddenly asked, "Professor, you said his potential is far beyond anything we imagined, greater even than yours or Magneto's. What level are we talking about?"

Charles stopped.

He glanced back at the glass-fronted building. Sunlight flashed blindingly off its top floor.

"Omega-level," Charles said.

Scott stopped short. So did Ororo.

"Are you sure?" Scott's voice tightened.

"His abilities are growing faster than anyone's I've ever seen. Not even Jean can compare."

Charles spoke evenly, as though stating a fact that had nothing to do with him. "His mental defenses are evolving on their own. Every time I try to make contact, they grow denser and more complex.

"As of today, I can no longer slip through them unnoticed."

He paused, lowering his voice. "An eighteen-year-old boy built mental defenses I can't easily breach in less than a day. And his Mutant abilities leave so many other Mutants far behind.

"If he isn't an Omega, who is?"

There was something else Charles did not say: Russell carried the combined Genes of himself, Magneto, and Wolverine. He had long since surpassed level four.

Scott and Ororo exchanged a glance. Both thought of the same person.

Jean Grey.

The girl who possessed the Phoenix Force and could reduce matter to nothing.

When her power first erupted, houses all along the street shook. Every metal object rose into the air at once, and the smell of ozone and static filled the air.

It had taken Charles a full month to help her establish her first mental defenses, then another three years to stabilize them.

For Russell to earn the same assessment said enough about how frightening he was.

"And," Charles continued, his wheelchair rolling over a loose paving stone with a soft click,

"he's unlike any Omega I've ever met. Jean's power erupts, like a volcano that could blow at any moment. Erik's grows steadily, like a river widening its banks. But his—"

Charles considered it. "He's like a tree. Its roots spread deep underground where you can't see them. By the time you notice, it has grown beyond your reach."

Scott said nothing more.

He looked up at the building. Its glass facade broke the sky into countless fragments, each reflecting different clouds and different light.

"What do we do now?" Ororo asked.

Charles was silent for a long time. A wind blew around the corner and lifted one edge of the blanket over his knees. He pressed it down.

"Scott." He turned. "You stay."

Scott looked down at the professor. His lips moved, but no words came out.

"Find somewhere to live," Charles continued. "Keep an eye on him. Not to monitor him, but to protect him.

"The military won't let this go. They lost a hundred and twenty men and five Sentinels. They won't simply write that off.

"If the people they send next are stronger than he is—" Charles looked at Scott. "Help him."

"Help him?" Scott repeated, thinking he had misheard.

"Help him," Charles confirmed with a nod. "If the military sends someone stronger, help him fight them. If he loses control and innocent people get hurt—" He paused. "You'll have to contain the situation."

Scott was silent for a few seconds. He did not point out what fighting an Omega Mutant would mean. He simply nodded.

"Understood," he said.

Charles gave the building one last look, then turned his wheelchair toward the van parked at the curb.

Ororo opened the door and helped him aboard. The hydraulic lift secured his wheelchair in its designated place at the back. Scott stood outside with his hands in his pockets, watching the revolving door.

"Scott." Charles's voice came from inside the van, muffled by the half-open door. "Be careful."

"I will, Professor."

The door closed.

The van pulled away slowly and joined the afternoon traffic in Manhattan. Soon it disappeared around the corner.

Scott stayed where he was and looked up at the building once more. Behind a floor-to-ceiling window on the top floor, he could just make out a figure.

He turned and walked toward a café across the street.

Washington.

General Darian's office was three floors underground. It had no windows, only a row of harsh fluorescent tubes set into the ceiling that made the whole room look like an oversized morgue.

The screen on the wall was still lit, frozen on a satellite image of the ruins in the slums: the fissure, the pool of water, the crushed remains of the Sentinels.

Darian stood before it, both hands braced against the edge of his desk, his knuckles white.

His adjutant stood three meters away, afraid to come closer and afraid to leave.

"A hundred and twenty men," Darian said quietly, almost to himself. "Five Sentinels. An electromagnetic pulse device. And they couldn't capture one little lab rat."

He turned, snatched the coffee cup from his desk, and hurled it at the wall.

The cup shattered against the screen. Coffee ran down the glass, over the fissure, over the pool of water, over the remains of the Sentinels.

"Useless!" he roared, his voice echoing through the empty office.

"That useless bastard Flint had a hundred and twenty men and five Sentinels, and he couldn't catch one eighteen-year-old kid! He even got himself killed!"

The adjutant swallowed and spoke carefully. "General, Major Flint died in the line of duty."

"Died in the line of duty?" Darian gave a cold laugh. "He got what he deserved. I gave him the best equipment, my finest soldiers, five Sentinels—and he threw them all away."

"I thought he'd make a good major. I was wrong. Captain was all he deserved."

After venting, he drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Anger would solve nothing.

According to reliable intelligence, the Mutant was still in Manhattan, living in a hotel's Presidential Suite like a rich man.

And he, Darian Yonatan, head of the United States' Superhuman Research Program, could not catch a single fugitive.

"Pull up Hound 10's file," he said grimly.

The adjutant hesitated. "General, Hound 10 is still in testing. His stability—"

"Did I ask about his stability?" Darian's voice was sharp as a blade. "I told you to pull up the file."

The adjutant fell silent.

He hurried to the console, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Seconds later, a classified file appeared on the screen. A red TOP SECRET stamp covered the page.

Darian stared at the photograph.

It showed a young man with brown hair and gray eyes. His face held no expression—the face of someone who had been brainwashed so many times he had lost the ability to show one.

"Hound 10," the adjutant read from the file. "Original name: Marcus Wright. Mutant ability: Energy Absorption and Release.

"He can absorb any form of energy—kinetic, thermal, electrical, or radiation—and store it in his body, then release it as a shock wave or energy beam. Absorption limit: undetermined. Release limit: undetermined."

"Undetermined?" Darian raised an eyebrow.

"The equipment breaks down whenever a test reaches a certain threshold," the adjutant said honestly. "His absorption ability appears to have no clear upper limit.

"In theory, given enough time and a sufficient energy source, he could absorb energy at any level."

Darian studied the expressionless face on the screen. A smile slowly curved his lips.

"What about mind control?"

"Thoroughly brainwashed," the adjutant said. "Ninety-nine point seven percent compliance with instructions. Almost no independent will left. He won't hesitate, feel fear, or question orders."

"He won't feel fear." Darian repeated the words as though savoring an aged wine.

"What's that Mutant's strongest weapon? Fear. He can bend bullets, split the earth, and bring an entire lake crashing down from the sky.

"Ordinary people see that and piss themselves. They run. They break. But Hound 10 won't."

He turned toward the screen on the wall. Coffee was still trickling down it, but the image changed, and the fissure, the pool, and the Sentinel wreckage vanished.

"Give Hound 10 his orders," Darian said sternly. "The target is at the Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan. Capture him alive if possible. If he resists—" He paused.

"Use any means necessary."

"General, if the target puts up a strong fight, there could be civilian casualties—"

"Civilians?" Darian looked at him, his eyes icy. "Remember, there are no civilians in my dictionary. Consider it a population-clearing operation."

The adjutant said no more.

"Go," Darian said with a wave.

The adjutant saluted and hurried out of the office. The moment the door closed, Darian heard his quick footsteps in the corridor.

He turned back to the screen.

The satellite image had returned. The fissure was still there, as were the pool of water and, it seemed, the Sentinel wreckage.

But soon, all of that would be rewritten.

"The result of Magneto's, Professor X's, and Wolverine's Genes... Could you be an Omega Mutant?"

Darian spoke softly, with no fear in his voice, only a greed that bordered on reverence. "Let me see how strong you really are."