The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

The helicopter made its grand landing on the expansive lawn of the Xavier Institute, kicking up a gust of wind that scattered students in all directions like startled pigeons. Seriously, what was it with kids and their inability to stand still? Anyway, the SHIELD team filed out, and the real show began: Logan, the mysterious man of the hour, was unceremoniously wheeled out on a stretcher, still unconscious, looking like a guy who had a bad day at a wrestling match—and then a worse day when Stryker got involved.

Waiting for them at the front entrance were none other than Charles Xavier, Warren Worthington III (who, in case you've never seen an angel before, had large, iridescent wings and an air of permanent discomfort), and Chiron, looking very "mysterious mentor" in his tweed jacket and wheelchair. This was definitely not your average field trip.

"Thanks for bringing him, Agent Fury," Xavier said, his voice smooth and calm, like he was asking someone to pass the salt instead of dealing with a potentially very dangerous guy who might be ready to rip everyone's heads off.

Nick Fury, standing tall with his iconic scowl and one eye on everyone, shot Xavier a look. "Let's get something straight, Professor. I don't trust him, and I sure as hell don't trust what Stryker's done to him. If he goes berserk, you can explain it to SHIELD's board, okay?"

Xavier nodded, looking like he'd heard worse threats while casually sipping tea. "I understand, Agent Fury. But Logan deserves a chance to heal, away from the people who've used him."

Fury squinted at Logan's still form, his arms crossed like he was about to deliver a whole lecture on why mutants shouldn't be trusted with anything, let alone their own redemption arcs. "A ticking time bomb," he muttered. "And you think bringing him to a school full of kids is a good idea?"

Before Xavier could respond, Chiron stepped forward, ever the wise, slightly intimidating figure. "You're forgetting, Fury, that we've dealt with... extraordinary people before. We're prepared."

Warren, who had been awkwardly trying to hide his wings behind him like an angel trying to blend into a normal dinner party, piped up. "He's not just a weapon. He's a person. If anyone can help him, it's Charles."

Fury hesitated for a solid minute, looking like he was still debating whether to just chuck Logan off a cliff and call it a day. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod. "Your funeral," he grumbled. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

---

Logan was gently laid down in the medical wing, which was definitely more "healing sanctuary" than "creepy lab," and that was saying something considering it was still a mansion full of mutants. Hank McCoy, ever the fluffy genius (literally and figuratively), adjusted the medical equipment around Logan's unconscious body, muttering to himself like a man who had seen one too many damaged brains. Xavier and Chiron hovered nearby, their presence both reassuring and unsettling, like a safety net that you weren't quite sure you trusted yet.

"He's... not exactly whole up here," Xavier said, with his usual calm as he looked at the monitor. "There are too many layers of trauma, too much conditioning. Getting past Stryker's mind control? It's going to take a lot of work."

Chiron, who had the subtlety of a wise old centaur who's seen things, nodded. "Are you sure he's worth the risk? There's always a choice when it comes to saving someone."

Xavier's gaze hardened, but his voice was steady. "I'm certain. Beneath all the rage, he's still a person. He's worth it."

Hank adjusted his glasses, his voice low. "If anyone can help him, Charles, it's you."

Warren, who had been hovering awkwardly at the doorway (because, you know, wings), gave a quiet offer. "Do you want me to stay?"

Xavier smiled, just a little. "Thanks, Warren, but no. This needs... precision."

---

Xavier's brain was buzzing like a live wire as he ventured deeper into Logan's fractured psyche. He'd faced chaos before—believe me, the guy had seen things—but Logan's mind was a hurricane, the kind that made you wish you were anywhere else. But he was here, and he wasn't going to back down.

The first wave of memories slammed into him—sharp, jagged, and full of claws. Screams, flashes of blood, and the metallic taste of rage. In one corner, a snarling, beast-like Logan was on all fours, his eyes glowing red like a killer on a caffeine bender. He didn't even look human anymore. More like an angry feral dog with a bad attitude and a whole lot of issues.

Logan's growl echoed in Xavier's mind, deep and guttural. "Stay out of my head, old man."

Yeah, no kidding, Xavier thought, but he didn't say it. He couldn't afford to get snarky—this wasn't some Greek monster of the week. This was real, raw, pure unfiltered rage. And Xavier needed to cut through it.

"Logan," Xavier's voice rang out, steady as ever despite the mental jabs Logan kept throwing. "You're not this. You're more than this. You're Logan."

There was a brief pause. For a second, it seemed like the beast in Logan was trying to understand what the heck he was even saying. But then, just like that, the chaos returned. Logan lunged at him, claws extended. Those things looked sharp enough to make a sushi chef jealous, but Xavier wasn't phased. He raised his mental shields, pushing Logan back with a quiet but firm thought. Not today, bub.

The feral version of Logan recoiled, confusion flashing in his glowing eyes. The storm of thoughts raged on, but Xavier could see it now—a crack, just a small one, in the chaos. Logan's mind wasn't entirely the beast he'd become. There were glimpses—brief as they were—of someone else. Someone lost, and very, very human.

And then, just when Xavier was about to lose hope, he heard it.

A woman's voice. Soft. Loving. Familiar. "Logan... it's okay..."

Xavier reached out, like a lifeline tossed in a storm, and grabbed onto that voice. Now we're talking. He threaded through the violent memories, following the sound of that voice until, finally, he found it.

There she was—her. The face, blurred at first but slowly coming into focus. Long, dark hair, a smile that could light up a room, and eyes that had seen more than any person should. The love was undeniable, hanging in the air like a warm summer breeze.

"Who is she?" Xavier asked, though he knew the answer already. He wasn't asking Logan. He was asking for something deeper. Something buried in the wreckage of Logan's mind.

Logan's feral side growled, louder this time, as if trying to drown out the memory. But the woman's voice was stronger than ever, and for the first time, Xavier saw something shift in Logan. The raw, animalistic instinct faded into a tinge of doubt.

"She... she's important," Logan muttered, his voice hoarse, cracked. Like he hadn't spoken in a hundred years.

Xavier leaned forward, every ounce of his telepathic strength focused on that one line. "You're right. She's important. You're important. You don't have to be this—this thing. This weapon. You're Logan."

The storm in Logan's mind started to slow, just enough for Xavier to squeeze through. Memories—slow, hesitant fragments—drifted to the surface: a life that was his, before the metal claws, before the pain. A life that wasn't just about survival, but about love, about fighting for something greater than yourself.

Logan's eyes snapped open in the real world, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. For a long moment, he just stared at the ceiling, his claws retracted, trembling like a man waking from a nightmare that felt far too real.

And then, he turned his head, eyes landing on Xavier. His voice was barely a whisper, like he was afraid of saying the words out loud.

"Who… who am I?"

Xavier's heart gave a little lurch at the brokenness in Logan's voice. He could see the man underneath the animal now, the man who had been lost for so long. He offered a small, knowing smile, one full of understanding and quiet determination.

"You are Logan," he said, his voice soft but steady. "And you're safe. You don't have to fight anymore."

Logan blinked, confusion dancing across his face like a shadow. He reached up instinctively, his hand trembling as it hovered over the metal claws. They were his, but they didn't feel like him.

"I… don't remember," Logan whispered, his voice shaking as he stared at his hands.

Xavier nodded gently, though his heart ached. "That's okay. We'll figure it out, one step at a time. You're not alone anymore."

From the doorway, Nick Fury's deep, gravelly voice broke the moment. "This better work, Charles. I'm still not thrilled about this."

Xavier didn't even look up. "I believe we all deserve a chance to heal, Nick. Even him."

And then, for the first time in a long while, Logan's lips twitched upward—a ghost of a smile, fragile but real. It wasn't much, but it was a start. A fragile step forward in a world where everyone had a past that haunted them, and a future still waiting to be written.

As the door clicked shut behind Fury, Xavier turned back to Logan, who was still lost in thought.

"How do you feel?" Xavier asked gently.

Logan didn't answer at first. He just stared out the window, lost in the reflection of a man who didn't quite know who he was anymore.

But the thing was, he would. In time, Logan would find himself again—whether he liked it or not.

And for the first time in a long while, there was hope in that.

---

So, the mansion returned to its usual weird but somewhat peaceful rhythm. Logan's recovery was a slow process, and Fury—though clearly not thrilled about leaving a potentially dangerous mutant under Xavier's care—kept his SHIELD team on standby, ready for the worst.

Chiron, meanwhile, was quietly watching Logan from a distance, eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and caution. "Warriors like him aren't shaped by chance," he murmured one evening. "Whatever Logan becomes, it will be a force. But it will shape more than just his own destiny."

Xavier, watching Logan stand in front of a window, studying his reflection, nodded. "He's stronger than he knows. But only time will tell if that strength will save him—or destroy him."

And so, the hunt for Logan's soul continued. The real battle, however, had just begun.

—

The hum of machines and the sterile, cold atmosphere of the facility hung thick in the air, an oppressive reminder of the twisted experiments carried out within these walls. Deep beneath Three Mile Island, in a secure lab shrouded in secrecy, Colonel William Stryker stood before the glowing cryo-tube that held the body of Wade Wilson. The man inside—Project Deadpool—was a shell of what he used to be, his body ravaged by cancer, his mind shattered by years of torment. He lay there, sedated and suspended in cryogenic fluid, a faint heartbeat the only sign of life.

Stryker, ever the mad scientist, didn't flinch at the sight. In fact, he grinned. This was the perfect candidate. With a few more adjustments, Deadpool would be the ultimate weapon. The healing factor, the mindless aggression—he could finally mold Wade into something useful.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Stryker muttered to himself, eyes gleaming as he observed Wade's form. "A weapon waiting to be unleashed, if we can only fix that annoying mouth of his."

The lab was quiet, except for the sound of his voice and the hum of the machines. The rest of Stryker's team worked quietly in the background, running diagnostics, taking notes.

Then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor, and a figure stepped into the lab, draped in shadows—the mercenary, the deadly Zero. He had failed his mission to retrieve Weapon X, and his eyes were cold, but there was something else in them. A lingering doubt. A hesitation that wasn't there before.

Zero paused just inside the doorway, his fingers brushing the handle of his gun instinctively as his sharp eyes tracked Stryker's every move. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was off.

"Is it wise, Stryker?" Zero asked, his voice gravelly, laced with a hint of concern. His gaze flicked to the cryo-tube. "Making Wade Wilson into your new weapon, after everything?"

Stryker turned slowly, his grin fading into a calculating stare as he looked at his old protege, still wiping the remains of Weapon X's failure from his boots. The two had once been comrades in arms, mercenaries together, each bearing the scars of past battles. But now, there was a distance between them, a tension that neither had been able to bridge.

"You know, Zero," Stryker said, stepping away from the cryo-tube and turning toward his old partner, "I always said Wade would make a perfect weapon. If only he could learn to shut up. But, the thing is, you and I both know the potential inside him. That healing factor, that raw, untamed rage—it's all right there. I just need to refine it."

Zero's hand tightened around his weapon, though he made no move to draw it. He had learned to keep his cards close, but the unease in his gut was gnawing at him. "Refine it?" he repeated, his tone dark. "By turning him into something worse? Wade's a nightmare already, you know that. You think this'll work? After everything we've seen, everything he's been through?"

Stryker's lips curled into a tight smile. "You're forgetting something. Wade's mind might be shattered. But that's why it'll work. I can rebuild him, control him. He won't be the smartmouth you knew. He'll be a weapon of pure destruction, a force we can control. The healing factor, the rage—it'll be focused."

The room seemed to grow colder as Stryker spoke, his obsession with the idea taking over. Zero didn't move, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Doubt? A hint of the person he used to be, back when he and Wade were just a couple of ruthless mercs in the business of getting things done?

"I'm not sure about this, Stryker," Zero said, his voice betraying a hint of something unspoken, something deeper. "You and I both know Wade never shuts up. And even if you can turn him into your weapon, that mouth of his—it's gonna be a problem."

Stryker turned back to the cryo-tube with a scoff. "Oh, I'll handle the mouth. A little mental reprogramming, some conditioning, and he'll be exactly what I need. Trust me, Zero. You know as well as I do what he can do, when he's properly guided."

Zero clenched his jaw but said nothing for a long beat. The truth was, the thought of turning Wade into a mindless tool for Stryker—it didn't sit well with him. No, Wade was a wildcard. Too much of a wildcard. Even under Stryker's control, he'd be a problem. But could he let that happen? Could he risk Wade becoming even more dangerous than he already was?

As Zero's thoughts churned, Stryker's eyes gleamed with that familiar, cold calculation. He was already thinking ahead, already envisioning the next steps. "The world needs weapons like Deadpool. People like you and me, Zero—we're just tools. But this—" Stryker gestured toward the cryo-tube. "This is the future."

There was a beat of silence, thick with tension. Zero stood still, his gaze fixed on the body of his old partner.

"Maybe you're right," Zero finally said, the words reluctant on his tongue, but a dangerous thought stirring in the back of his mind. "Maybe he's the future. But just remember, Stryker… You really want to risk turning Wade Wilson into your weapon?"

Stryker didn't look back as he gave his response. "If I can get past that mouth of his, yes. Yes, I do."

Zero's eyes narrowed, his hand hovering near his gun. He wasn't sure what was more terrifying—the idea of Wade as Stryker's weapon, or the fact that, deep down, he might be agreeing with his old boss.

As Zero turned to leave, the sound of his boots echoing in the sterile lab, Stryker's voice followed him.

"You know where to find me, Zero. When you're ready to see the real power of Deadpool, let me know."

The door slid shut, and the weight of the decision lingered in the air like a ticking bomb.

—

Inside the cryo-tube, Wade Wilson's body was frozen in a state of suspended agony, the cold air biting through his battered skin. His face, a patchwork of scars, still bore the remnants of his past—every injury, every cruel experiment—etched deeply into his flesh. But beneath that frozen exterior, the real Wade was never quite asleep. No amount of sedatives, no matter how powerful, could truly silence him. His mind buzzed with an electric defiance, an irreverent voice that refused to be locked away for long.

"Seriously, Stryker?" Wade's voice echoed in the dark corners of his mind, full of mocking disbelief. "You really think you can just throw me in a fancy human popsicle and poof, I'm your perfect little killing machine? I mean, the audacity of it. Do you honestly think that's going to work? You've seen my resume, right? Stabbings, shootings, torture—hell, I've been stabbed by a guy who didn't even have a knife. And you think some ice bath is gonna fix me? I'll take my chances."

Even in the frigid grip of the cryo-chamber, Wade's mind refused to stay still. It was a chaotic mess of memories—half of them likely fabricated by his own tortured brain, the other half too real to ever forget. And throughout it all, his signature humor, dark as it was, bubbled to the surface.

"Okay, okay, let me get this straight. You want me to be your personal attack dog, but you can't even handle me in my current state. Newsflash, bud, you're messing with the wrong guy. I'm like the cockroach of the mercenary world—you can stomp me, freeze me, put me in a blender, and I'll still come out the other side cracking jokes."

His internal monologue ran wild, punctuated with dry sarcasm and painful memories, the kind that had driven Wade to madness long before his time as Deadpool. Yet even in his fractured state, he was as dangerous as ever.

"Go ahead, freeze me all you want. Reprogram me, make me your perfect little weapon," he muttered darkly, then added with a laugh, "But you should know, I'm the weapon that doesn't come with a warning label. I'm more unpredictable than your last failed attempt at a 'tough guy' look, Stryker."

Inside the cryo-tube, his body remained frozen—every inch of him held in place by the cold, by the drugs, by the torture. But his mind was a furious mess of thoughts, every fractured memory a slap in the face, every twisted desire a scream for release. Wade could feel the hot, raw anger bubbling to the surface, even through the sedatives that tried to keep him docile.

"Just try to control me, you weasel-faced hack," Wade growled in his mind, his mental voice dripping with venom. "You can freeze me, fry me, or put me on a leash like your little attack dog. But good luck. You can't put this genius back in the bottle. You know why? Because I'm the guy you can't ever take out of the equation. You really wanna make me obedient? You gotta go through all of this first, Stryker. And trust me, you're not ready for what's coming."

The mental jabs were relentless, each more painful than the last, but even in his disoriented state, Wade's spirit was unbreakable. And though he couldn't physically move, couldn't physically escape, the one thing Stryker couldn't take from him was his mind—his twisted, sarcastic, and utterly uncontainable mind.

"Go ahead. Try your best, Stryker. Turn me into your ultimate weapon. I'll show you what happens when you mess with a guy who's already been through hell and back—and then had a bit of fun while doing it."

As his thoughts raced, Wade's voice grew quieter, yet no less defiant. He was no longer just a man. He was chaos in its purest form—a walking disaster that could never truly be controlled. And though he was trapped in this cold hell, it wasn't the end of him. It was only the beginning of his next chapter.

And when he finally broke free, when the ice melted and the drugs wore off? Stryker would be in for a very unpleasant surprise.

—

In the Dreamscape, Harry was knee-deep in chaos, and if you're wondering why he wasn't terrified, it's because he was too busy trying not to get his face knocked in by Sun Wukong's flying fists. The Dreamscape itself—part cosmic playground, part shifting nightmare—was a canvas that bent and stretched with every strike they made. One second they were on a moonlit beach, the next they were surrounded by giant floating chess pieces, all of them either attacking or cheering them on. It was the kind of place where "calm" was a word only used in sarcasm.

Harry's punches were fast, sharp, and filled with enough force to rattle a small moon, as he was fully determined to knock out Sun Wukong at least once in this lifetime.

"C'mon, kid! Is that all you've got? I've got monkeys in my family tree who hit harder than that!" Wukong taunted, dodging a spinning kick with a lazy twirl. He wasn't even trying, and Harry hated it.

"Hey! I'm just getting started!" Harry grinned, flexing his fingers like he was about to unleash a thunderstorm, which—okay, fair enough—was one of his talents. The air crackled, and Harry could feel the divine spark of Zeus coursing through his veins, but before he could launch anything remotely destructive, something shifted.

A disturbance.

It wasn't a ripple in the air or a change in the wind—it was deeper than that, like a bell tolling in the distance, one that only the most attuned of senses could pick up.

Harry froze mid-punch, the sudden weight of the feeling crashing over him. Sun Wukong, who had been happily taunting him one moment, stopped too, a frown replacing his usual mischievous grin. The moment stretched long, too long, as the air around them seemed to hold its breath.

"Did you feel that?" Harry asked, his voice suddenly lower, more serious. He was used to chaos—it ran through his blood. Loki's chaotic spark was part of him, like the air he breathed. But this—this was something different.

"Oh, I felt it," Wukong said, his voice dropping in tone. The Monkey King, the literal embodiment of chaos, looked uneasy. Uneasy. And that was not something Harry ever thought he'd witness. "That's the kind of chaos I've only heard of in legends. The kind that makes you forget the rules entirely. Whoever or whatever is causing that is no joke."

Harry clenched his fists, his mind racing through possibilities. He had tangled with gods, tricksters, creatures of darkness, and even a few dragons—but this felt like the sort of thing that would make all that chaos look like a warm-up.

"Do you think it's... another god? Another trickster?" Harry ventured.

"Not a god," Wukong said, his eyes narrowing. "And not a trickster, either. It's something else. Someone who can throw chaos into disarray, in a way I've never seen. Trust me, kid, I know all about chaos. I am chaos, but this... This is like the universe itself just said 'screw it' and tossed the rulebook into a volcano."

Harry snorted despite the tension rising in the air. "And here I thought I was the master of 'throwing things off balance.'"

"I'm the King of Chaos," Wukong shot back, a playful grin creeping back onto his face. "But I'll admit—whoever this is, they might just be the real deal. The kind of wild you don't control, but ride."

A sharp silence followed, and Harry felt it again—like a jolt of pure energy, an electric pulse in his chest. Something was coming, and it was going to be big. Harry's heart raced, his thoughts a tangled mess of excitement and dread. He wasn't used to feeling unprepared, but this? This was a whole new kind of madness.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Wukong's tone shifted, his mischievous nature briefly retreating behind a wariness Harry rarely saw.

"Yeah," Harry replied, eyes scanning the ever-shifting landscape of the Dreamscape. "It's like someone is about to pull a fast one on both of us."

"That's not just any fast one," Wukong warned. "This is the kind of fast one where you end up questioning reality itself. I've felt this before, Harry... only once. But believe me, this kind of chaos doesn't play by the rules. It breaks them. And then it makes new ones."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to focus despite the rush of adrenaline. He had the strength—godly strength, no less—but if Wukong was uneasy about this, that meant Harry would need more than brute force this time. He would need his mind. His wit. All of it.

"I'm not backing down," Harry said with a grin, the storm of chaos within him echoing in his chest. "Chaos is my thing, after all. If this person's bringing the thunder, I'll show them how to make lightning."

Wukong chuckled, the sound as wild and unpredictable as ever. "You've got guts, kid. Just remember—chaos doesn't wait for you to be ready."

A final pulse echoed through the Dreamscape, a crack in reality forming like a window into something—someone—beyond the veil. Harry's heart thudded in his chest. Whatever was coming, he was ready.

At least, that's what he told himself.

—

The old facility on Three Mile Island had that kind of vibe that made you think the walls were going to start speaking in creepy whispers. The air smelled like rust and ozone with just a hint of... well, terror. It was the kind of place that made you question everything, especially your life choices. The buzz of machines echoed through the halls like some twisted version of an alarm clock that never stops, and the cold concrete made everything feel even more wrong.

Stryker's goons, all grim-faced and probably in need of a vacation (or at least a change of clothes), marched down the flickering hallway with a new prisoner in tow. This wasn't just any kid, though. No, this was Kurt Wagner, a nine-year-old mutant with glowing yellow eyes, blue skin, and a tail that could probably take out an army if he wasn't stuck in a cage. They didn't even bother being gentle—just shoved him into a tiny, cold cell and slammed the door behind him like he was a bag of potatoes.

Kurt landed on all fours with a grunt. His tail flicked nervously, and for a moment, he just stared at the bleak, concrete walls like they were personally offended by his existence. It was dark—like, really dark—and the only light came from a flickering bulb overhead that gave the room a sickly greenish hue. Classic creepy, right?

And of course, just when Kurt was trying to process everything, he realized he wasn't alone.

Across the dim room, in their own cages, sat three other kids. Each one looked like they'd been through more than any kid should. Kurt blinked and took in the sight of them. There was Jubilee, her eyes glowing like little fireworks, leaning lazily against the bars. There was Piotr, a giant of a guy who could turn into a walking slab of steel, just sitting there like a quiet mountain. And then there was Betsy, her sharp, telepathic gaze fixed on him like she was reading his soul, which, knowing her, she probably was.

"Well, well," Jubilee said, her voice full of that cocky, 'I'm totally fine even though this situation is not fine' attitude. "Looks like we're all stuck in the same crummy boat."

Kurt's voice, thick with his German accent, came out quieter than he intended. "I... I've never been in a place like this before. What is this place?"

Jubilee's grin widened, like she couldn't decide whether to make a sarcastic remark or give him a pep talk. "Well, welcome to Stryker's summer camp for mutants! The food sucks, the accommodations are terrible, and the fun activities include, you know, getting experimented on. Not a five-star joint, that's for sure."

Kurt couldn't help but flinch a little. "This... this is not normal, yes?"

"Ding ding!" Jubilee said, tapping her temple with a finger. "You win the prize for Most Obvious Observation. Now, welcome to Hell. You get used to it."

There was a certain bitterness in her voice, though. That wasn't the kind of sarcasm that came from just being sarcastic. That was the kind of sarcasm that came from someone who'd been chewed up by the world and was still trying to keep their sense of humor.

Before Kurt could respond, a deep, rumbling voice cut through the tension. "You will get used to it," Piotr said, sounding like he was trying to be comforting but failing miserably. "This place breaks you... but it does not kill you. It only makes you stronger."

Kurt blinked at him. "Stronger?" he repeated. "I don't think I want to be stronger in a place like this."

Piotr looked at him with a kind of sadness that only came from a guy who'd been here far too long and had already learned the hard way. "Neither do I," he said. "But you will survive. You will become... stronger. We all do."

Betsy spoke up, her voice cutting through the conversation like a scalpel. "Stronger doesn't always mean better, Piotr," she said, not unkindly, but there was a bite to her words. She shifted in her cage, her sharp, violet eyes locking onto Kurt's. "But you'll learn. We all do. That's the only choice we have."

Jubilee kicked her feet up on the bars of her cage, acting like she was totally fine, but Kurt saw the slight twitch in her hand. "Yeah, that's Betsy for you. All mysterious and telepathic. She knows stuff, but she won't tell you unless you've got a really good reason to ask. Anyway, don't sweat it. She's right, you'll learn. And don't bother asking about 'escape.' We've all tried. Spoiler alert: it doesn't end well."

Kurt's tail flicked again, and his claws scraped the concrete floor in frustration. "So... who is this Stryker? What does he want with us?"

Betsy's eyes narrowed. There was something dangerous in the way she looked at him, something that made the air feel even colder. "He's a monster," she said, her voice low and even. "He doesn't see us as kids. He sees us as experiments—tools to be used for whatever twisted plans he's got." She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You're not the first kid he's brought here, and you won't be the last."

Jubilee smirked, though it was the kind of grin that meant she was trying to keep it together. "Look, kid, I hate to break it to you, but you're in the deep end now. Welcome to the mutant kiddie pool. Stryker's got a lot of us in here, and he's not exactly known for his kindness."

Kurt's heart sank. "And... if we try to escape?"

Piotr's face darkened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "They will hurt you," he said, his tone flat. "They will hurt you until you wish you never tried." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truth. "But... there is always a way out. Just not now. Not yet."

Betsy stood up, brushing off her pants like she was about to give a motivational speech, but her eyes locked onto Kurt's with a quiet intensity. "We'll get out of here. Eventually."

Jubilee tilted her head back against the bars, a sly grin creeping back into her face. "Yeah, but it's not gonna be easy. And don't get all 'heroic' on us, okay? We've all had those thoughts. Trust me, you need more than just hope to survive in this place."

Kurt took a deep breath, his tail wrapping around his legs like a comforting blanket. "Maybe we can help each other get out of here."

Jubilee winked at him, her grin sharp and mischievous. "That's the plan, elf. Stick with us, and we'll show you the ropes. Who knows? Maybe we'll make it out alive."

For the first time since arriving, Kurt felt that spark of hope. If these kids had survived this hellhole for as long as they had, maybe, just maybe, he could, too.

As the metal doors slammed shut behind the guards, Kurt made a silent promise to himself: he wasn't going to give up without a fight. Not if these kids—his new, unlikely family—were counting on him.

---

Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!