The Unfathomable Russell

Better to fight of his own free will than be controlled by someone else. The savagery buried in Wolverine's bones was fully unleashed.

Every slash Logan threw carried two hundred years of killing intent and precision. He knew every weakness in the human body, how to do the most damage with the least effort, and how to strike from the angle his opponent least expected.

Russell, on the other hand, had none of that.

He had no experience, no technique, none of the instincts honed through countless fights to the death.

He had only one thing: a healing ability stronger than Wolverine's.

Was being impossible to kill the greatest advantage of all?

Logan's claws raked from his shoulder to his chest. Flesh split, and blood sprayed.

A moment later, the wounds rapidly healed.

Logan's fist shattered his cheekbone. Bone fragments pierced his skin, exposing the red muscle beneath.

It rapidly healed.

Logan's knee broke three of his ribs. The fractured bones pierced his lung, making him cough up a mist of blood.

It rapidly healed.

Every punch, every slash, every lethal attack vanished within seconds. It was like carving words into solid stone, only for a gust of wind to pass and leave nothing behind.

Russell left serious wounds on Wolverine's powerful body too. No matter how severe they were, they could heal, but the pain was real.

And the longer Russell fought, the more energized he became.

"What the fuck..." Logan panted, the blood on his claws gleaming dark red beneath the streetlights. "What kind of monster are you?"

He quickly backed away to put some distance between them. Watching Russell, he felt deeply frustrated and searched for words to distract him.

"Wait. Hold off for a second. I've got something to say."

Russell stopped and gave him a puzzled look. "You're usually the type to let your fists do the talking. Now you're—"

"Your healing is stronger than mine," Logan cut in, ignoring him. "Your control over Telekinesis is strong too. Hell, you've probably got more potential than I do.

"But there's one thing you don't have yet—"

"What?"

"Control," Logan said. "You know how to fight, but you don't know when to stop.

"You stopped today because you sensed me. What about tomorrow? The day after? If nobody's there to hold you back, will you stop?"

Russell said nothing.

Logan looked at him and nodded, as though he had gotten the answer he wanted.

"The professor said Xavier Institute would welcome you anytime. Not because you're strong, but because you need somewhere to learn how to control that power."

With that, he started walking away. But Russell wasn't in the mood for a lecture, and lecturing people wasn't exactly Logan's forte.

So a reluctant Logan was forced back into the role of sparring partner, while Russell grew more excited with every exchange and gradually stopped holding back.

Under Russell's molecular-level Psychic Telekinesis, the old wolf, whose close-combat skills were nearly unmatched among Marvel Heroes, became a punching bag tossed from place to place.

Cyclops, Scott Summers, could no longer stand by and watch. He decisively stepped in.

As Scott Summers fitted his Ruby-Quartz Visor over his eyes, his fingers paused for a moment at the edge of the frame.

He knew what he was facing—a monster who had destroyed five Sentries, a hundred and twenty soldiers, and Hound 10 within minutes.

But he also knew that if he did nothing, Logan might be beaten to death.

Not killed in the usual sense. Beaten until his healing could no longer keep up with the damage.

An optic blast shot from his visor. Scott didn't want to kill anyone. He only wanted to stop this "sparring match" that had turned into something else.

The red beam struck the asphalt precisely between Russell and Logan, gouging a smoking scar through the road.

Russell stopped and turned toward Scott. Logan seized the chance to retreat, his chest heaving, the blood on his steel claws gleaming dark red beneath the streetlights.

He glanced at Scott without thanking him. They didn't need that between them.

"You want to fight too?" Russell asked, as casually as if he were asking whether Scott wanted breakfast.

Scott did not answer.

He removed his visor, exposing unprotected eyes brimming with destructive energy.

He rarely did this. It meant he could lose control at any moment. But against Russell, he doubted his usual approach would be enough.

"I don't want to fight," Scott said, his expression grave. "But if you don't stop—"

"You'll blast me with your laser eyes?" Russell finished for him with a faint smile.

"Then go ahead."

In the instant Scott hesitated, Russell moved.

Not toward Logan. Toward Scott.

Fighting one opponent or two made no difference to him.

Scott reacted swiftly. His optic blast erupted in a fraction of a second, and the red beam struck Russell square in the chest.

His bathrobe burned through. His skin charred, exposing his ribs. His heart beat inside his chest, the horrific damage plain to see.

Russell did not stop. He pushed through the beam, each step leaving a deep footprint in the ground.

[Super Self-Healing Experience +1]

[Super Self-Healing Experience +1]

Charred skin peeled away as new tissue grew over it, just a little faster than the beam could destroy it.

Scott's pupils contracted. He poured on more power, and the red beam turned white-hot. The air warped in the heat, while asphalt caught in the blast began to melt.

That was exactly what Russell wanted. The more damage his opponent dealt, the more excited he became.

Russell kept walking.

[Super Self-Healing Experience +1]

[Super Self-Healing Experience +1]

He pushed through the optic blast, quickly reached Scott, and seized his wrist.

Scott's beam veered into the sky, cutting a dazzling red trail through the night like lightning flowing backward.

"Your visor's no good. It limits your power." With his other hand, Russell pulled the ruby-quartz lenses from Scott's face.

Scott's eyes were exposed. Unrestrained, the destructive energy began spilling from his pupils.

It was not a beam, but something more primal and violent, like the core of a nuclear reactor melting down.

Just as I thought!

In the comics, Cyclops drew his energy from a Pocket Universe. There was far more to it than zapping mosquitoes. Russell clenched his right hand.

Crack!

The visor shattered.

Russell shoved the broken lenses back into Scott's hand, then punched him in the face.

Scott flew backward, knocked over a roadside trash can, and rolled several times before coming to a stop.

His visor was broken. Pieces of its lenses lay scattered across the asphalt, catching flecks of light from the streetlamps.

His leg twisted at an impossible angle. Both the tibia and fibula had snapped, and broken bone pierced the skin, exposing stark white ends.

Cold sweat covered Scott's forehead. His face contorted as he looked down at his leg, at the blood and bone.

Then he looked up at Russell. There was no fear or anger in his eyes, only calm understanding, almost like relief.

"Now the professor should be satisfied. He'll know you're not the Mutants' hope. You're a tremendous threat."

Russell walked over, crouched, and examined the twisted leg.

He reached out, not to finish Scott off, but to push the broken bones back into place. His movements were rough, as though he were assembling furniture.

Yet they were extraordinarily precise.

Bone aligned, muscle knitted, skin closed over it all. Molecular Psychokinesis wove a web of repair inside Scott's body.

Within seconds, Scott's leg was back to normal, without even a scar. Only his deathly pale lips showed anything had happened.

"Kid, let him go! If you've got a problem, come at me."

Wolverine charged with his claws crossed, trying to help Scott. Russell flicked a hand, and Logan was hurled high into the air, landing a kilometer away.

Scott did not dare open his eyes fully. Squinting, he looked at his leg, then at the sky where Logan had vanished. His gaze settled on Russell. His lips moved, but no words came out.

"Open your eyes," Russell said, standing. "Have some confidence, Scott. Let all your power out."

Suddenly—

A sonic boom rolled in from the horizon. Russell calmly looked up at the star-strewn night sky.

A jet, black from nose to tail, tore across the sky and hovered above them.

With a cursory sweep of his senses, Russell knew the X-Men had arrived.

Before the Blackbird could land, two tornadoes sprang up from the ground, forcing Russell back.

Storm, the white-haired Ororo, descended and landed in front of Scott. Then came Iceman, Pyro... and finally Jean, a young woman who looked utterly harmless.

Facing the full, formidable X-Men lineup, Russell remained unmoved. He watched them quietly. They watched him in turn, most of them wary, while Pyro's face showed open anger.

Iceman went to Scott and helped him off the ground.

"You all right?"

"My leg's fine." Scott flexed his knee. "But I think I need a therapist."

"Get in line," Iceman said with a wave of his hand. "The hospitals are probably packed right now. We're better off talking to the professor."

"Where's Logan?" Storm asked quietly.

Scott was about to answer when a battered, bearded man rode up on a motorcycle. Who else could it be but Logan?

Storm frowned more deeply at the sight of him. Her gaze lingered on Russell, and she seemed about to speak, but then she shook out her coat as though she had received an order.

"Let's go."

"Wait," Russell called. "You forgot your sparring fees. Wolverine was great. I'm happy to pay him a hundred thousand dollars. Cyclops wasn't much good... Counting the cost of his lenses, how does a thousand sound?"

At the hotel lobby entrance, Felicity leaned against the wall. Her tears had not yet dried.

"Why did he break that man's leg?" Felicity asked, her voice trembling.

"That's normal," Laura said.

"Normal?! Then he fixed it? And offered them money?"

"Maybe it really was a sparring match," Laura said, voicing her best guess.

Felicity looked at her, then at Russell's back. The world made less and less sense to her, but she did not regret following him.

Liberty Island.

The Statue of Liberty stood in the middle of the harbor at night, its torch gleaming a dull gold beneath the moon. The Blackbird descended slowly. They still had an important mission to complete tonight.

Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair facing the statue, but his gaze was fixed beyond it, on the lit top floor of a hotel in Midtown Manhattan.

He closed his eyes.

His consciousness crossed Manhattan's night sky, passing flickering neon lights and darkened windows, sleeping people and sleepless ones, before settling in the shattered Presidential Suite on the hotel's top floor.

Russell stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, barefoot on broken glass, looking out at the city.

He had changed into a clean white bathrobe, its collar pulled tightly shut. His expression was calm, as though nothing had happened.

Charles's voice sounded in his mind.

"Child."

Russell stiffened, not from fear but from alertness. In that instant, his Mental Defense rose like a hedgehog's quills, every point aimed at the intruder.

"Don't be alarmed." Charles's voice was gentle, like winter sunlight, an old blanket, a home that no longer existed. "I'm not here to read your mind."

"Then why are you here?" Russell's voice echoed through the space of their minds, cold and sharp.

"To see you," Charles said. "To see what a young man thinks after killing people, breaking someone's leg, and then setting it for him."

Russell was silent for a few seconds. "I'm wondering whether, next time I break someone's leg, I'll be able to fix it with a single thought."

Charles shook his head and laughed softly.

"You know, Erik was like this when he was young. He thought he could do anything. He thought violence was the only way to solve problems, and that the world owed him an explanation."

"I'm not Magneto," Russell interrupted. "What are you trying to say?"

"What I'm saying is—" Charles paused. "You truly aren't Erik. You have his Genes, but not his experiences. You have Logan's healing, but not his trauma.

"You still have more choices."

"Choices about what?"

"About the kind of person you become."

Russell turned and looked at the city veiled in night fog. Manhattan's lights blurred in the haze like a watercolor painting soaked through.

"What if I choose to keep killing?" he asked.

"That is your choice," Charles said. "But you must understand that every choice has a cost. Kill one police officer, and his colleagues will hate you. Kill dozens, and the whole department will hate you. Kill a hundred, or even a thousand, and this city will hate you.

"You can use your power to suppress their hatred, but it won't disappear. It will only build until one day, you find the entire world standing against you."

Here we go again. Professor X really is the comic-book version of Tang Sanzang.

"I don't care," Russell answered without hesitation.

"You do care." Charles's voice was soft but firm. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have sent that girl into the streets to hand out money. If you didn't, you wouldn't have set that man's leg after killing people. And if you didn't, you wouldn't be standing here listening to an old man you dislike say things you don't want to hear."

Russell did not answer. He could hardly tell Charles that he had done all of it to grow stronger.

And perhaps... one day, if growing stronger meant turning the whole world against him, so what?

[Mental Defense Experience +0.5]

[Mental Defense Experience +0.7]

The silence stretched on so long that Charles thought Russell had severed their connection.

"Professor X," Russell finally said.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever thought that one day you might lose your powers and sit in a rundown Water Tower, waiting for the twilight of the world?"

Charles said nothing.

His consciousness lingered outside Russell's mental barrier, like a man standing before a high wall, wondering what lay beyond it but not daring to climb over.

Aside from Jean, Russell was the only person Charles could not fathom. He seemed to follow no rules at all.

"Stop," Charles said, with a weariness Russell had never heard in his voice. "Don't keep going down the wrong path.

"You're still young. You still have a chance—not to become a hero or a Savior, but simply to become someone who doesn't wake at midnight or live trapped in nightmares of hatred."