X men
Owen didn't need a helicopter to drive to the location he was supposed to investigate: 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center. So, with a furrowed brow and a visibly annoyed expression, he drove for an hour until he reached a surprisingly clean area, surrounded by woods and untouched land. Quite strange, considering it was still in New York State.
He followed the main road until he reached a crossroads and turned to stay on route. Then, he braked suddenly.
A slight confusion clouded his mind. For a moment, he felt unusual urges: to abandon the mission, take a vacation, invite a beautiful woman out for a fun date… or even party and see if his alcohol-resistant body could finally get drunk.
But he quickly recognized that only one of those thoughts was truly his. The confusion began to fade, like waking up from a dream. He blinked twice and snapped back to clarity.
"That was interesting," he muttered, before pressing the gas again.
After a few more minutes, he came upon a sign that read:
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.
He pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out calmly. Without rushing, he took his two knives and hid them behind his back —the only spot where they wouldn't be easily noticed. Then he slipped on a black jacket and began walking toward the mansion, clearly visible in the distance.
Children of all ages were playing in the gardens, but the moment they noticed him, they quickly ran inside the mansion as if a silent alarm had gone off.
"That's not very polite," Owen muttered with mild annoyance as he kept walking, undistracted.
He approached the large front doors. Just as he was about to knock, the doors opened on their own.
On the other side, a group of men and women stood watching him, brows furrowed, forming a silent wall of defense.
There was a young man with red-tinted glasses staring at him while holding his frames with one hand. Beside him, a red-haired woman whose hair floated slightly, as if caught in a breeze only she could feel. Another woman with white hair examined him with cold eyes. There was also a shirtless man, covered in body hair, claws extended from both hands… and another who looked similar, but with blue skin.
"I give up. Talk missions aren't really my thing. Just bomb the place already," Owen said as he calmly turned around.
The redhead instantly frowned.
"Stop," she ordered, her hair glowing a deeper red for a moment.
Owen felt his entire body freeze, like someone had pressed pause. But a second later, control returned. He turned slowly, visibly irritated.
"Ever since I started getting close to this place, I noticed you people aren't very welcoming," he said, reaching behind his back and pulling out his black daggers.
At that, the clawed man lunged at him like a beast. Logan charged fast, leaping in one swift move to slash him with his metal claws. But Owen moved with precision, dodging to the side while his dagger carved a defensive arc, deflecting the strike aimed at his neck.
In the same motion, Owen extended his hand and activated a pre-set cord. With a twist of his wrist, the thin wire lashed out toward Logan's neck. It wrapped tight like a trap and, with one final pull, a deep cut burst open, sending Logan crashing to the ground with a spray of blood.
"Logan!" shouted the guy with the red glasses. He yanked his visor up, releasing a red laser blast straight at Owen's head.
Owen simply tilted his head aside, as if dodging a pebble, then spun the dagger in his hand, grabbed it by the blade, and threw it with force at the young man's forehead.
Thud.
The hilt slammed into his head with such force that he was thrown backward, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Owen tapped his wrist, and the dagger snapped back into his hand. As the rest of the group braced to attack, Owen casually dropped himself onto Logan's back, who was still lying on the ground. The wound on the mutant's neck was already visibly healing.
Everyone saw it. Everyone froze. No one wanted to risk hurting Logan by mistake.
"How did you know I'd heal?" Logan growled from the ground.
"I've got a special ability too," Owen replied without moving. "I read people's abilities. For instance, the redhead who keeps trying to get into my mind should know that a soldier trains every part of himself —especially someone like me."
He looked up.
"The white-haired one is trying to summon a lightning strike. I'm pretty sure it would hurt... but honestly, I'm curious. The blue guy... is he your brother?"
"Grrr…" Beast growled, saying nothing.
"I figured," he said, pausing for a moment.
"I also detected metal behind the door. An ice-powered kid. And another one… absorption-based? I'm not sure how her ability works. Powers? Memories? Awkward contact?"
He sighed, serious.
"Looks like you're protecting the kids. I get it. But let me make something clear: I'm not your enemy.
Well… technically, I am, since you attacked me first. But my mission was simply to figure out why mutants suddenly started appearing in my city."
The redhead stepped forward.
"You know what we are?"
"Something," Owen replied calmly.
"That's enough. Stand down," said a firm voice.
A man in a wheelchair entered the scene, approaching with a serious expression. Behind him walked a blue-skinned woman with deep red hair tied back and a tight white outfit that did little to hide how imposing —and attractive— she looked, despite her unusual appearance.
Owen stared at Charles Xavier for a few seconds, then slightly narrowed his eyes.
"You seem to know who I am," Xavier said calmly, stopping a few feet away.
"And in case you're wondering —no, I haven't read your mind. Sometimes, sharp observation is more than enough."
Owen's expression shifted immediately. His features tightened, annoyed.
His mind was dangerous territory —the kind of place no one should walk through without warning.
Not because he was afraid...
But because there were too many things in there that no one should ever know.
Still, he didn't lower his guard. In fact, he allowed the moment to reinforce his mental discipline. Every time Jean Grey had tried to get into his head, his mind reacted instinctively —as if every psychic probe only strengthened his automatic defenses further.
Xavier continued, steady:
"I hope we can talk. You seem to know more about mutants than most. And we need answers. Because frankly… we don't belong in this world."
Owen looked at him in silence. Not a single conscious thought crossed his mind, just in case.
He didn't know what kind of Charles Xavier this was.
If he was one of the good ones —great. He'd just protect his people.
But if he was one of the manipulative versions…
He'd be a long-term headache.
Owen slowly sheathed his daggers, hooking them back behind his back, and stood up with calm composure.
"My name is Owen Colt. Colonel, United States Army," he said firmly.
He immediately felt Logan's gaze lock onto him with a mix of surprise and distrust the moment he said "army."
"I work for division V.I.T.A.E. —Special Unit for Protection and Humanitarian Assistance. And just so you know… yes, there's a satellite currently aimed at this location.
If anything happens to me, they won't hesitate to act."
The air grew tense. The expressions of the mutants turned more serious. Even the calmest of them shifted into alert mode.
"...Well, that last part was a lie," Owen added, his tone unchanged —though a faint smirk appeared on his face.
The wave of collective irritation was almost audible. More than one looked ready to pounce again.
"Please, come in," Xavier said, still composed.
"It would be better to talk in private. We can exchange information."
With that same serenity, Xavier turned his chair and began moving toward one of the side corridors —clearly away from where the children were being kept.
That alone earned him a few points.
If this was a good Xavier, at least he was taking proper precautions.
But Owen still wasn't ready to drop his guard.
He walked silently between the mutants, who continued to eye him warily. As he moved deeper into the mansion, he noticed something he hadn't processed before: Jean Grey, Storm, and Scott looked young —no older than 19 to 22. Beast was harder to read, thanks to the fur.
And Logan… well, Logan was Logan. An old man moving like someone in his twenties.
As Owen kept walking, he felt another gaze locked onto him.
Mystique.
She hadn't looked away from him even once.
And he made sure not to look away from her either.