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The news cycle had already begun its relentless dissection of the day's events, cameras and microphones thrust toward anyone willing to share their experience of humanity's closest brush with extinction. Television screens across the city flickered with footage of the battle's aftermath twisted metal, scorch marks on concrete, and the hollow shells of buildings that had stood witness to impossibility made manifest.
"Even after that horrible alien attack, seeing our heroes step up the Baymax Company and these Avengers it's not just relief, it's something to actually celebrate," the news anchor's voice carried the kind of gravity usually reserved for historical moments.
The interviews that followed painted a complex picture of a city processing trauma and triumph in equal measure.
"I gotta thank Baymax. They dug me out of the rubble..." An elderly man's voice cracked with emotion as he spoke to a reporter, his hands still shaking from the memory of concrete crashing down around him.
"What do you think about the Avengers?" the interviewer pressed.
Another voice, younger and more uncertain: "Look, I don't know. Having all these super-powered people around... it makes me nervous, you know? But thank God for Baymax. Those robots actually give a damn about protecting regular folks..."
The sentiment was echoed by a woman whose voice carried the hollow exhaustion of someone who'd survived the unsurvivable: "My Baymax got destroyed trying to save people. I... I don't know how I feel about it. I mean, I always thought it was just a machine, you know? But after today... God, it was more like having a guardian angel. Those superheroes? They got nothing on Baymax."
Not every voice carried gratitude. Some interviews revealed the complexity of human nature when faced with power beyond comprehension:
"I wanna thank that guy who shoots ice everywhere he was so cool!" A child's voice, bright with the kind of excitement that came from seeing something impossible.
"I'm sorry for all that crap I posted about mutants online..." This admission came quietly, shame-faced, from someone whose worldview had been fundamentally altered by watching outcasts risk everything to save strangers.
But there were harder voices too: "Look, those heroes need to own up to trashing half the city. This was their fight. Where the hell are they now?"
The corporate response had been swift and decisive: "Baymax Corporation has already wired compensation and is covering all property damage caused by Dr. Banner and the Transformers during the battle."
"No way, we can't take their money!" came the immediate pushback from multiple voices, the kind of pride that came from people who'd been saved and didn't want to feel bought.
The newspapers were already running with headlines that would define how history remembered this day. But one thing was clear across every interview, every editorial, every man-on-the-street opinion piece: Baymax Corporation had emerged not just victorious, but beloved. The evacuation system had worked flawlessly, the robots had died protecting civilians, and the mutants who'd once been feared were now being called heroes in the same breath.
In the broader narrative taking shape, public perception of mutants had shifted dramatically overnight. Fear had given way to gratitude, suspicion to admiration. It was the kind of PR victory that political consultants could only dream of achieving.
Professor Xavier sat in his study, the warm glow from the television painting his weathered features in shifting blues and whites as he absorbed the cascade of testimonials. The tension that had lived in his shoulders for decades the weight of being responsible for his people's future in a hostile world seemed to ebb with each positive interview.
The lines around his eyes had softened, and for the first time in years, his smile carried genuine peace rather than carefully maintained hope.
Outside, the sound of enthusiastic voices mixed with mechanical whirring drew his attention toward the windows.
"Storm, have you drawn your blueprints, or should we just follow my ideas and build it together?" .
Storm was currently engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation with Optimus Prime, her hands gesturing animatedly as she asked questions about Cybertronian architecture that the massive robot seemed delighted to answer. Her weather-manipulation abilities had manifested unconsciously during her excitement, creating tiny localized rain clouds that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight before dissipating.
"Uh..." Storm's response when called carried the embarrassment of someone who'd been caught procrastinating on an important assignment. "I can't draw blueprints for shit ."
"What about the others? Are none of your group an architect?" Aidan's tone suggested he'd suspected this might be the case but had hoped to be proven wrong.
"It's true, so you can build it however you want," Storm replied with the kind of cheerful admission that came from someone realizing they were in over their head.
""Then why'd you spend three hours yesterday telling me how you wanted to design your own place and waste my time! " Aidan's voice carried mock outrage as he threw his hands up in the universal gesture of dealing with the impossible. "I sat through three hours of you explaining feng shui principles!"
"I didn't think about it! boss," Storm's voice took on the wheedling tone of someone trying to charm their way out of trouble. The word 'boss' still sounded strange coming from her like she was trying on new clothes that didn't quite fit yet. Without waiting for a response, she fled toward the mansion with the tactical retreat skills of someone who knew when they'd lost an argument.
"I'll arrange a small house for you..." Aidan called after her, his voice carrying fond exasperation.
The dynamic between them had shifted dramatically since the invasion. Where once Storm had bristled at any suggestion of authority, now she seemed almost eager to belong to something larger than herself. The transformation wasn't unique to her across the Institute, former rebels and skeptics had found themselves genuinely invested in Aidan's vision for their future.
Even Pyro, who'd made a career out of sullen defiance, had been spotted earlier helping younger students understand what it meant to be part of something heroic.
"White Queen," Aidan said, his fingers moving to the nearly invisible communications device at his ear. The gesture was so subtle it could have been mistaken for adjusting his hair, but the result was immediate connection to artificial intelligence.
"Let's make a drawing first. Build a giant central stadium, which will include most of the mainstream sports. You can also build some fighting robot clubs in other places..." His voice took on the particular cadence of someone thinking out loud, ideas flowing faster than organized thought could contain them.
"There are also nursing homes, children's rescue centers... Anyway, the necessary basic systems in society are built first and can be added later." The vision he was painting was nothing less than a complete community self-contained, self-sufficient, and designed around the specific needs of people whose abilities set them apart from baseline humanity.
The central stadium would be the crown jewel, Aidan decided. Something that would make every architectural magazine in the world sit up and take notice. Sci-fi aesthetic meeting practical function, designed to showcase abilities that most of the world still struggled to accept as real.
The mathematics were sobering but manageable. The mutant population was relatively small, and the introduction of suppressant therapy would continue to reduce those numbers. The ones who remained would be self-selected for power and commitment the kind of people who chose to keep their gifts despite having the option to become "normal."
Time was also a factor that weighed heavily on Aidan's strategic thinking. Both Professor X and Magneto, for all their considerable abilities, were still subject to the cruel mathematics of mortality. The government's long-term strategy appeared to be simple patience wait for the mutant leadership to age out, then deal with a leaderless population.
Xavier clearly understood this dynamic, which explained his desperate gratitude for finding an ally who could bridge the gap between human and mutant societies while possessing the kind of power that governments respected rather than dismissed.
Magneto's absence from the recent battle still rankled. A man of his capabilities locked away while the world nearly ended was the kind of waste that offended Aidan's practical sensibilities.
The scene playing out on the Xavier Institute's main lawn was one that would have been impossible to imagine just days earlier. Optimus Prime and Megatron had somehow organized what could charitably be called a football game, though the rules seemed to have been improvised on the spot and the equipment included at least one piece of construction machinery being used as a goalpost.
Iceman and Pyro had managed to acquire protective gear from somewhere and had appointed themselves to opposing teams, their rivalry channeled into something that looked almost like friendly competition. Bobby's ice-based abilities provided natural defense against Pyro's flames, while the fire-manipulator had discovered that superheated air could create interesting aerodynamic effects when applied to a football.
The Transformers appeared to be having the time of their mechanical lives. For months on Apex Island, they'd been limited to games among themselves—the same personalities, the same strategies, the same predictable outcomes. The addition of human players had introduced variables that they found genuinely challenging.
Hank McCoy and Logan had been conscripted into media duty, standing before a semicircle of reporters and cameras as they field questions about the day's events. As the mutant representative to the human world, Hank understood the critical importance of this moment for his people's future. Every word, every gesture, every expression would be analyzed and dissected by pundits and politicians.
Logan's role was simpler but no less vital he was there to look intimidating and occasionally grunt agreement with whatever Hank said. The novelty of being seen as a hero rather than a threat had worn thin approximately twenty minutes ago, and his face had settled into the kind of forced smile usually seen on shopping mall Santas in December.
Aidan was adjusting his own protective gear, preparing to join the organized chaos on the field, when Professor Xavier approached with the slow deliberation of someone who had made a life-changing decision.
"Thank you, child," the old man said, his voice carrying the particular gratitude of someone who had been drowning and suddenly found solid ground. His eyes tracked across the scene before them students and ancient mechanical beings playing together with the kind of joy that came from genuine acceptance.
"Have you figured it out?" Aidan asked, recognizing the particular calm that came over people when they'd finally resolved a long-standing internal conflict.
"Yes," Professor Xavier replied, his voice steady with newfound certainty. "The power I've got... it's screwed up, you know? But now that we've got this mutant-human thing sorted out and there's actually a future for us, I'm ready to give it up."
The admission hung in the air between them like a door closing on one chapter of history and opening on another. Charles Xavier's telepathic abilities had defined not just his personal identity but the entire trajectory of human-mutant relations. His decision to surrender that power represented nothing less than the conscious choice to become ordinary after a lifetime of being extraordinary.
"Well," Aidan said with a smile that carried both understanding and approval, "this is not a bad thing. After your abilities are limited, other people will no longer be suspicious of you, and you can also enjoy a peaceful old age."
The practical benefits were obvious. No more politicians wondering if their thoughts were being read during negotiations. No more fear from humans who could never be certain their mental privacy was intact. Xavier could become what he'd always claimed to be a teacher and advocate rather than a figure whose very existence challenged fundamental assumptions about mental autonomy.
"Is it okay if I want to inject the inhibitor directly?" Xavier asked with the careful tone of someone making sure they understood their options completely.
"Okay," Aidan replied without hesitation. "But let's wait until you and Magneto have settled the entire mutant race."
There was still work to be done, after all. The community needed to be built, the refugees needed to be integrated, and the political framework needed to be established. Xavier's final service to his people would be helping them transition from a persecuted minority to a voluntary community with full legal standing.
Meanwhile, Thor had departed to find his mortal girlfriend, and Aidan's immediate responsibilities had shifted to the mundane but vital work of construction planning and spaceship repair. The captured Chitauri mothership would need extensive renovation before it could serve as a floating command center, but the symbolic value alone would be worth the engineering challenges.
And for those mutants who chose to keep their abilities, employment with Baymax Corporation offered everything anyone could want from a career full benefits, housing, meaningful work, and the security that came from being valued rather than feared.
PLZ Throw Powerstones.