"That's right, Alex!"
Charles's voice carried both weight and suppressed excitement, his calm demeanor barely concealing the triumph gleaming in his eyes. Beside him, Erik was no less animated. He clenched a fist with satisfaction, his tone brimming with pride.
"It's taken nearly twenty years," Erik said, his voice rough with the gravity of years spent in struggle, "but it was worth every second. The Soviet Union has agreed to support our nation-building!"
In the current world landscape, two giants still divided the earth like gods of war—the United States and the Soviet Union.
The Soviet Union, though weathered and weakened, was not yet broken. Its reforms had turned clumsy and its domestic front chaotic, but as the saying went: a centipede dies but never collapses. Despite its scars, it remained a colossus, and its international influence was undeniable.
As for the United States? They had taken a different path. Because their leader—the famous "Smiling Boy"—was himself a mutant, negotiations there had been smooth, far easier than anyone expected.
That alone had shifted history.
In another timeline, that man had died by assassination, becoming nothing more than a tragic name in the annals of history and an ironic internet meme. But here—here, mutants had intervened. They had saved him.
And in doing so, they secured an ally who understood, who was one of them.
Even after his resignation, the Smiling Boy's influence lingered. He had paved the way for collaboration, for shared interests between human governments and mutants. His efforts, combined with Charles and Erik's ceaseless diplomacy, had ensured that even now, the U.S. stood firmly behind mutant nationhood.
But at the heart of all of this—the linchpin that made governments cautious, respectful, even afraid—was Alex.
The walking nuclear deterrent.
"Charles," Erik muttered with a sidelong glance, "if you had listened to me twenty years ago and used your ability more… directly, perhaps we wouldn't have had to wait so long."
It wasn't a rebuke. Not really. Just an old argument re-surfacing.
Charles only smiled faintly, his eyes glinting. "And if I had, Erik, perhaps what we built would have collapsed even faster. Control is no foundation for peace."
They both knew the truth. Over two decades of grinding effort, endless travel, and tireless persuasion, they had poured their very hearts and souls into this cause. Now, finally, the dam had cracked—the impossible dream of a mutant nation was within reach.
"The Soviets have agreed," Raven said suddenly, her golden eyes alight. Her voice, steady yet urgent, cut through the air. "Our other preparations are nearly complete. Alex—should we begin? Should we push forward with the nation-building plan?"
All eyes turned to him.
Alex leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering, he let his gaze sweep across the veterans assembled before him—Emma Frost with her poised elegance, Raven's sharp determination, Erik's iron will, Charles's quiet wisdom.
"What do you all think?" Alex finally asked.
It was a test, but also a measure of their resolve.
The response came quickly—nods, murmurs, unanimous agreement. Twenty years of struggle had forged them into steel. They were ready.
"In that case," Alex said at last, spreading his hands with finality, "let's move forward."
The decision fell like a hammer.
Excitement flared across the room. Plans began to flow, strategies laid out, voices rising with anticipation. A nation of mutants—once a dream, now a heartbeat away.
But then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of knocking shattered the rising tide of enthusiasm.
The conference hall fell into a hush.
Hank frowned slightly, his sharp mind instantly suspicious. Charles glanced at him and said softly, "It's Professor Rawls."
At once, several people relaxed slightly.
Professor Rawls—an ordinary human, but one who had worked faithfully under Hank for nearly a decade. Though he lacked mutation, he possessed something rarer: loyalty. He had endured Charles's psychic inspections and Alex's cold scrutiny, passing each time without fault. He was a man of science, devoted to research, with no ulterior motives.
If he had come, it was surely about the laboratory.
Hank rose and opened the door.
There stood Professor Rawls, his glasses crooked, his hair disheveled, his chest rising and falling with panic. He looked like a man who had sprinted the entire way from the labs.
"Professor Hank—it's terrible!" Rawls gasped, his voice breaking. "The Cosmic Cube—it's missing!"
The words struck like thunder.
"What?!" Hank's face drained of color.
The Cosmic Cube.
For years, its importance had only grown. Countless weapons and devices powered by alien tech relied on its limitless energy. More critically—the very heart of the protective energy system designed for Krakoa, the mutant homeland-to-be, revolved around the Cube.
But all of that paled in comparison to the truth Alex had revealed years ago.
The Cosmic Cube was one of the Infinity Stones.
It was not merely a power source—it was a keystone in Alex's fight against Arishem himself.
It could not—must not—be lost.
"What happened?!" Hank barked, his voice unusually harsh. He seized Rawls's arm, dragging him toward the conference table. "No—come inside. Tell everyone. Now."
The door closed with a slam.
Dozens of eyes locked onto the trembling scientist.
Raven's face had gone pale. "Hank?" she asked sharply, dread already creeping into her tone.
"The Cube," Hank said grimly, each word like a knife. "It's gone."
Gasps erupted.
Voices overlapped, sharp and disbelieving.
"Impossible!"
"When—how?!"
"Who could even—"
"Professor Rawls," Hank interrupted, his voice tight. "Tell them exactly what you told me."
Rawls adjusted his glasses with shaking hands. "Just now—I was preparing to run tests on the Cube. But when I activated it—I realized it wasn't real. It was a fake. Someone had swapped it!"
The uproar grew louder, fear and outrage mingling like a storm.
Rawls raised his voice to be heard. "Yesterday morning, I used the Cube to power a prototype weapon. It was genuine then. That means—the swap must have happened sometime between yesterday afternoon and today!"
Hank's jaw tightened. He nodded slowly. "So, less than twenty-four hours ago."
That narrow window brought some relief—if it had been recent, perhaps the thief had not yet gone far.
Emma Frost's voice cut through the noise, icy and commanding. "Charles. Use the Cerebro."
Her eyes gleamed like diamonds. "Now."
Charles didn't hesitate. "Come."
The group moved quickly, urgency propelling their steps down the metal corridors. They entered the chamber where the great machine waited, its massive spherical shell gleaming under the dim lights.
Hank's fingers flew across the controls, activating the vast neural network. The chamber hummed to life, lights flickering as the machine awakened.
Charles seated himself, the iconic helmet lowered onto his head.
He drew a deep breath, then released his mind.
At once, his consciousness expanded like a tidal wave, sweeping outward.
His mind touched the Earth itself.
Billions of thoughts, dreams, memories, and voices cascaded into him—a storm of humanity. But he had done this countless times before. With calm precision, he filtered, focused, honed in on one single target.
The Cube.
He sought its energy signature, its mental echo, its thief.
The Cerebro chamber trembled with power.
And then—Charles's expression changed.l
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