Xavier's School, March 2017
Lynn's POV
Relatively peacefully, a decade cruised by.
Although faced with a regrettable number of catastrophes striking the cities of New York, D.C., London and Sokovia on separate—strange—occasions by alleged demigods, hacked secret organizations, aliens from other dimensions and an insurgent artificial intelligence unit respectively, the overall establishment of human-mutant coexistence was not, thereby, shoved into jeopardy.
Life at the mansion remained safe and sound as the gifted school bloomed into the dream Charles always envisioned it to be.
With the influx of help since the last racial provocation, our academy rapidly expanded, welcoming a wide range of students from primary, secondary and even tertiary levels. Every semester, countless pupils graduate, most rejoining society in a seamless, undiscriminated, fashion, while others dedicated their futures to serving their alma mater.
The once diffident yet pesky bunch—namely Siryn, Shadowcat, Rogue, Iceman, Pyro and Colossus—have risen as responsible teachers and veteran X-Men. Peculiarly, the clique of six wound up as three couples all lined up to be married in the coming seasons.
After that trying incident, the affinity between Rogue and Bobby had admittedly strengthened and was eventually rewarded when Bobby developed a subsidiary mutation that resisted the lethal effects of his fiancee's.
Similarly, Peter's earnest efforts ultimately moved his teenage crush, who also recently discovered herself a new—though anticipated—talent, of sending the consciousness of another back in time, and the two have been blissfully engaged since last summer.
Most amazingly, and in many ways unexpected, John displayed a remarkable capacity for repentance, almost on par to Erik's commendably compliant behavior, that absolutely charmed his comrade. It was comically described that Theresa nearly deafened all the other restaurant patrons, not to mention comprehensively shattered their glassware, when she enthusiastically accepted his proposal over their romantic Christmas dinner.
Other fresher ones have also earned their stripes as time whisked by. Jimmy, for one, had learnt to duly control his unique powers and was now undergoing training under the alias Leech to join the discretional squad. A handful of our initial batch of refugees have also, after much mentoring, fine-tuned their abilities in order to qualify for the choice team.
Clarice, aliased as Blink, was taught to efficiently create more stable teleportation portals bordered by pink rays, instead of the green and volatile analogue she was accustomed to. James, aliased as Warpath, honed his acute tracking expertise with us and Roberto, aliased as Sunspot, improved his solar projection techniques while Lucas, aliased as Bishop, practiced his energy absorption and redirection diligently.
Psylocke and Arclight, having received pardon and surviving the disastrous calamity, willingly pegged themselves to our cause and were now not only well-versed in combat but accomplished in the art of instruction.
Our original pool of adults still devoted their lives to the fulfilling profession and most have realized their happiness in the form of a significant other. Although maintaining a curiously chummy relationship with Logan, Storm remained likewise single but the terrifically eligible bachelorette was currently—purportedly—wooed by some Wakandan prince.
Definitely, one of the most notable events that have graced us was the birth of Jean and Scott's fraternal twins as they presented Rachel with her first and second siblings both at once. In the spring of 2010, the marvelously adorable pair of Alexander—clearly named in memory of his dear uncle—and his little sister, Lauren—in my honour at the insistent generosity of Jean—was pleasantly added to our family.
Furthermore, after two successful terms as the UN ambassador, Hank finally retired from the government. At the start of 2015, he officially passed the imperative baton to a competent junior—coincidentally the son of his bosom confidant, Trask—who actively built on and propelled Hank's efforts forward.
In consequence, Hank and Raven returned to Westchester, certainly delighting Charles and I with their permanent residence—and faculty positions.
As we inevitably approached the outwardly cursed ten-year mark, everything seemed smooth-sailing. At least until Logan fervently knocked on my office door, obnoxiously disrupting the serenity evoked by my daily yoga routine.
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, the worldwide fad had too infiltrated our walls but not quite for the typical reasons of chasing the popular trend.
Reliable sources of medical research have progressively and consistently suggested the prospect that the ancient Indian mannerisms aided in the prevention and alleviation of the symptoms elicited by Charles' wretched and cureless ancestral disease.
Gradually, an increasing quantity of prescriptions was required to suitably prevent the deterioration of his genetic condition and while the adverse reactions of the quintessential inhibitor drugs were usually mild, the debilitating ones suffered in his case were dreadfully not negligible.
Terribly plagued by insomnia, we were constantly fatigued. Nausea and vomiting thankfully surfaced in lesser extents but they negatively affected our appetites regardless, triggering an unhealthy loss of weight.
Upon religiously participating in the celebrated exercise, however, his ill situation witnessed a stark improvement and was preserved in a steady state by the concerted performance of our devoted commitment and slashed dosages of ingestible pills.
Moreover, there was a myriad of benefits just awaiting to be reaped by our paraplegic bodies. Every workout session exerted even our dead legs, promoting crucial blood circulation throughout our immobilised regions.
While sensory or motor functions were not miraculously revived, given the fundamental completeness of my injury, physical endurance vital to sustain our independent lifestyles was ideally enhanced.
Erratic and undermining relapse episodes randomly dictated by my obstinate spine were greatly reduced, in both frequencies and intensities. While true dexterity in the fingers of my gimpy arm was only regained marginally, I was able to manoeuvre them, and basically any part of my body, manually by the exploitation of my telekinesis that resultantly grew with astounding precision.
My tree pose moderately levitated from the ground might have backfaced the normal entrance of my study but Logan unmistakably identified himself as he rashly barged in, butchering the exquisite parquet flooring under the furious and hurried treads of his boots.
"Logan, can you not read that I am in the middle of something?" I chided in displeasure, considerably piqued that he had conveniently and totally ignored the 'DO NOT DISTURB' signage hung conspicuously on the slab of timber he just slammed open.
"There is someone you need to see," he claimed in an urgent tone.
"A parent..." Logan elucidated, somewhat hesitantly.
"Apparently," I scoffed, rolling my eyes, as I grudgingly rotated myself around.
"Mrs. Xavier?" A tentative voice pronounced and the crisp familiarity of that masculine vocal spontaneously swept my eyes to its source.
My eyes lingered, magnetised, to the Scot—aged, but virtually the same—and my mind, previously emptied by the tranquil meditation, instantly flooded with a jumbled mess. Before another witting moment, I flopped onto a rubbery mat and instinctively cried out in pain as I landed awkwardly on my crippled wrist, bare and unprotected from its inherent vulnerabilities.
Luckily, no crack resonated through the astonished atmosphere and there was no immediate or visible indication of a fracture or dislocation, besides the vivid throbbing pulsating through my trembling joint as I delicately cradled it.
Both men rushed over, yet it was not Logan who unhesitatingly scooped me up first. Almost without qualms or perhaps any thoughts trundling through his brain at all, the supposed stranger carefully untangled my legs piled in a contorted clutter and swiftly hoisted me into his arms. In that ever ironic safe haven, I gaped, flabbergasted, as he glanced around the room and my heart raced to the brisk paces he abruptly took.
"James...?" I murmured subconsciously as he prudently lowered me into the chair hovering behind my desk; he looked at me with surprise but his bewilderment was oddly fleeting, rapidly dissolving from those mesmerizing eyes.
"Oh, right, you read minds," James commented, not scornful but, in amusement and he even marvelled slightly as a small smile twitched onto his face.
"I'm sorry. That was unbecoming," I hastily apologised, lowering my gaze sheepishly as my brain continued to swirl in massive disorientation.
"It's fine," he conveyed reassuringly, surely not realising I meant to atone for my uncomfortably long stare instead of the imagined invasive—but really, nonexistent—use of telepathy.
"Are you alright?" James probed in concern and I just nodded as I gently fitted my burning wrist back into its plastic housing.
"You... You wanted to see me?" I stammered, peering up at him nervously.
"Yes. It's about my daughter," he revealed solemnly.
XXXXX
Like my husband says, I'm doing a GOT—packing all the good stuff together before it ends! Did anyone expect James' cameo? Hehe
