Cyclops's Worries

Fisk Tower, top floor.

Kingpin stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over Manhattan.

He was too massive to look like an ordinary human. His suit stretched across him like a second skin, yet his bearing was remarkably elegant, like a king surveying his domain.

The enormous screen on the wall was showing a live broadcast from Daily Bugle Media.

The shaking camera made the footage hard to watch, but the Mutant's face was clear: young, handsome, with unforgettable deep-blue eyes.

"Interesting." Kingpin's voice was low, like the slow draw of a cello's lowest string.

A faint smile touched his lips. There was no warmth in it, only the appraising interest of a hunter who had spotted prey.

Bullseye stood behind him with his hands in his pockets, as casual as a man waiting for a bus.

His face held no expression. It was not indifference, but the numbness of someone who had seen so much killing that nothing excited him anymore.

"What do you think of him?" Kingpin asked.

"Strong." Bullseye's gaze sharpened. "Stronger than Daredevil. Stronger than Punisher. Even—" He paused. "Stronger than Spider-Man."

"Stronger than you?"

Bullseye did not answer.

He knew Kingpin did not need an answer. Kingpin was thinking aloud, using Bullseye's voice as background noise while he sorted through his thoughts.

"He tore through the Triad Gang alone. From the looks of it, he left no survivors." Kingpin turned, walked back behind his desk, and sat down.

The chair had been made for him. It was wide enough to seat three ordinary people.

"Okamoto Taichi's fate is unknown, but I think he's dead. That means The Hand has lost a foothold in New York."

"Isn't that good?" Bullseye raised an eyebrow. "The Hand has always been our rival in Hell's Kitchen."

"It is. Very good." Kingpin tapped the desk twice, slowly, like the swing of a pendulum.

"But the question is whether he'll keep going after criminals. The Triad Gang isn't the only outfit doing business in Hell's Kitchen. We do business there too."

Bullseye's expression finally shifted as he looked at the suited thug in the chair.

"You... want to recruit him?"

Kingpin looked at the man's face on the screen without a word, but his smile said everything.

"You're joking. Recruiting him would be as hard as recruiting Magneto." Bullseye shook his head firmly.

"Look at his eyes." Kingpin did not argue.

Bullseye turned to the screen.

"There's no greed in them. No ambition. No hunger for more money, more power, or more women."

"There's only one thing in his eyes: indifference."

Kingpin picked up the glass of red wine on his desk and swirled it, but did not drink. "A man like that won't be easy to recruit. He doesn't need money or power. He doesn't need anything I can give him.

"Maybe there's only one thing he wants to do: kill people he thinks deserve to die."

"Then what do we do?"

"Wait." Kingpin set down the glass. "Wait until he's killed enough, or until someone kills him. Until then—" He looked at Bullseye. "Do not provoke him."

Bullseye nodded. "What if he comes after us?"

Kingpin's fingers stopped tapping. He stared at the face on the screen for a long time.

"If he comes after us," he said at last, "we'll show him we're not the Triad Gang. One man can't turn New York's underworld upside down."

A faint smile crossed Bullseye's face. He had known the old fox was not as simple as he seemed.

"What a shame... If he joined us, we wouldn't need the Six Great Fiends to put Spider-Man in the ground." Kingpin sighed.

The underground Training Room at the Xavier Institute.

Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair with both hands pressed to his temples, fine beads of sweat on his forehead.

Scott Summers sat across from him. He had removed his Ruby-Quartz Visor, leaving his eyes completely unprotected.

Light churned in those eyes. It was not steady, controllable light, but the flicker of a bulb fed by unstable voltage, ready to flare out of control at any moment.

"Relax." Charles spoke softly, as though coaxing a sleepless child to rest.

"Don't fight it. Follow my guidance and let it flow through you. Your eyes aren't weapons. They're part of you. You need to learn to face them, not reject them."

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The power roiling deep within them slowly settled, like the sea after a storm, leaving a moment of calm.

"That's enough." Charles lowered his hands, leaned back in his wheelchair, and rubbed his temples. "We'll stop here for today."

Scott opened his eyes. The light was gone. He picked up his Ruby-Quartz Visor from the table and put it on, and the world once again felt as though it would not explode without warning.

"Professor, why is this happening? My powers have been stable for years. They've never felt like this, like they're going to burst through my skin and crack my skull open."

Charles looked at Scott with exhaustion and concern in his eyes, and with the hesitation of a man who knew the answer but did not know how to say it.

"It's because of Russell," he said at last.

Scott froze.

"Your powers aren't going out of control. They're activating, or rather, shedding their limits," Charles explained.

"You came into contact with an energy source far more powerful than you. Your body is trying to adapt, trying to reach that energy level.

"It's as though you've always flown at a hundred meters, then suddenly saw someone flying at two thousand. Your body decided it wanted to go there too, so now it's straining to climb."

Scott looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly.

"Can I still control it?"

"Yes." Charles's eyes were full of trust. "But you need time, practice, and a goal."

He turned his wheelchair toward the screen on the wall. The live broadcast from Daily Bugle Media had ended.

"I made an agreement with Russell."

Scott looked up at the professor in confusion.

"He should be coming to the Xavier Institute. Not to study, of course, but to train. He'll fight our members to improve his own abilities."

Charles turned back to the puzzled Scott. "In exchange, I asked him to help us improve ours. I don't think he'll refuse, and it should solve your problem completely.

"He can do all that because he can edit the X-Factor."

Scott's pupils contracted. "He can edit—what?"

"The X-Factor. You know it's the source of our Mutant abilities. The military and the government have tried more than once to study it, to control the power in our genes." Charles sounded calm, as though stating a simple fact.

"If Russell is telling the truth, he can push our abilities past their current limits to levels we've never imagined."

The Training Room fell silent for a few seconds. Scott looked at his hands, which had been trembling moments ago. Now they were clenched into fists.

"You mean he can make us stronger?"

"That's what he says."

"No." Scott shook his head sharply. "Professor, you said he's growing at a terrifying rate. And we're going to help train him? That's..."

Charles knew what Scott meant. He turned his wheelchair toward the Training Room door and stopped before rolling out, but offered no further explanation.

"I'll tell all the X-Men about this." He paused. "I suggest you think it through before you decide."

The door closed, leaving only Scott and Wolverine in the Training Room.

At the far end of the room, Logan leaned against the wall, an unlit cigar between his lips and his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket.

He looked at Scott, then glanced at the face on the screen. He took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.

"Don't look at me," he said idly. "I'm not doing that damn training."

Scott turned toward him. "Scared?"

Logan scoffed. "Me? Who have I ever been scared of?" He put the cigar back between his lips.

"I just don't want to be anyone's punching bag. That kid heals faster than I do, and he's got Telekinesis. I might as well go fight Magneto."

"The professor said he wants to get stronger."

"He gets stronger, I get crippled." Logan took the cigar out and ground it against the sole of his shoe.

"I heal fast, but that doesn't mean getting beaten to hell every day won't take a toll. Besides, I hate the feeling."

"Then who do you think will go?" Scott asked.

Logan thought for a moment and glanced out through the Training Room window.

Storm stood outside with her arms crossed. Her long white hair gleamed silver under the lights.

Her expression was calm, but her fingers tapped lightly against her arm. She did that when she was nervous.

"Ororo might. She's been feeling like she can't do enough for the professor lately. She's been wanting to push past her limits."

"Anyone else?"

Logan thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That's it. I don't know about the others. Once they meet that kid, they might want to beat the crap out of him instead of train."

He turned toward the door. After a few steps, he stopped without looking back.

"If that kid comes, give me a shout. I won't fight him, but I'll have a drink with him."

The door closed again.

Scott sat in the chair, pain and uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

"What is the professor thinking?" he murmured.