As Mark slowly opened his eyes, a faint hum echoed through the X-Jet's interior. The vibrations of its flight were steady, a low, comforting rhythm that belied the chaos and turmoil that had preceded this moment. He blinked once, then again, adjusting to the dim lighting of the cabin. His thoughts immediately jumped to the most pressing question.
"Only an hour passed?"
The words slipped out in a hushed whisper, barely audible but laced with disbelief.
He sat up cautiously, half-expecting his body to protest violently, with aching muscles, dizziness, perhaps even nausea. But instead, what he felt was normal. Not whole, perhaps, but far from the kind of debilitating fatigue he had anticipated. The strain he expected was conspicuously absent. He had activated not one but two protagonist templates Goku, embodiment of martial strength and battle instinct, and Harry Potter, a symbol of magical potential and heroic perseverance. Given the sheer scale of power he had channeled, he had prepared himself for aching muscles and unbearable fatigue Yet none of that came.
He exhaled quietly and finally turned his gaze across the aircraft's interior. The X-Jet's main cabin was bathed in a bluish hue, the overhead lighting dimmed to accommodate both the meditative and tactical atmosphere.
At the chess table sat Professor Xavier and Magneto. The board between them was mid-game, a silent war of intellect and subtlety. Xavier, ever composed, rested his fingers gently against his temple, eyes half-closed as he contemplated his next move. Magneto, upright and regal, studied the board with a narrowed gaze, his fingers occasionally brushing the black bishop as though teasing a trap.
Mystique perched near them, crouched low like a panther watching its prey. Her demeanor was relaxed. Her golden eyes flicked between the two men, catching every microexpression and every tick. Her mind, no doubt, was already ten steps ahead, calculating what this game said about their trust or lack thereof.
Storm and Cyclops were at the helm. Their voices were low and purposeful as they navigated the aircraft with practiced precision. Cyclops adjusted the altitude controls, while Storm silently monitored atmospheric conditions through the digital overlays. They didn't speak much, but their presence was grounding. The air itself seemed calmer around them, likely Storm's influence, subtle but always present.
Further down the central cabin Logan, sat beside someone most wouldn't expect: Lady Deathstrike. There was no animosity between them now. Instead, an odd serenity had settled. Their conversation was quiet, almost gentle. Logan's tone was gravelly but not hostile. Deathstrike, arms crossed but relaxed, listened with more interest than Mark would've imagined. Something fragile was forming between them. Not quite trust, but the ashes of former hatred were no longer smoldering.
Off to the side, Nightcrawler and Colossus stood together both whispering The teleporter's gentle piety and the metallic mutant's quiet artistic soul made them natural companions. Colossus nodded often, his deep voice murmuring words of agreement. Nightcrawler smiled with reverence and calm.
But toward the rear of the aircraft lay their new xaotive.
Colonel William Stryker was unconscious, restrained, silenced by Charles Xavier's mental intervention. The man's breath was shallow but steady, a grim reminder of the danger he embodied even in sleep. Charles had neutralized him, but that solution was temporary. Mark stared at the man, and a shadow crossed his thoughts.
"This man doesn't deserve a trial."
There was no malice in that thought, only clarity. Stryker's sins were not abstract or political they were personal and vicious. His hatred of mutants had driven him to war crimes. He had tortured his own son. He had slaughtered children. And he had orchestrated the conversion of human fear into systematic violence.
Mark's mind raced with the implications.
'If Stryker were handed over to S.H.I.E.L.D., there was a genuine risk he would escape. His political connections ran deep. His psychological manipulations had ensnared generals, senators, and even government-funded scientists. There was no guarantee justice would prevail'
And even if he didn't escape, what then? Stryker can be said to be one of the humans in the world who knows the most about mutants. If he falls into Nick Fury's hands, Nick Fury will have more information about mutants and if Fury gets information on mutants that means HYDRA gets information on mutants, itll be bad if they got their hands on that information or worse the man himself with this information
"This is the man who built Weapon X program" Mark thought bitterly, recalling the grotesque mutant-slayer once paraded as Deadpool in a warped timeline.
"He creates monsters. With enough time and money, he could build something worse."
Killing Stryker wouldn't just be vengeance. It would be preemptive justice. And if Xavier wouldn't do it, perhaps Magneto would. Erik had always believed in decisive action. If anyone understood that evil could not be reasoned with, it was him.
For now, his focus shifted back to the Harry Potter template.
He had inherited blood. Wizard blood. Not just the diluted, passive kind either, but directly bonded to the memories of one of history's most famous magical prodigies. The knowledge was vast four years at Hogwarts compressed into his brain like it was just pasted from a hard drive to a computer. Potions. Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Magical Creatures. Even the unstructured knowledge, Hermione's obsessive study guides, Dumbledore's philosophical musings, and Lupin's practical training, was all his now.
He remembered casting the Patronus Charm. The swirling light. The emotion it required. He remembered riding Buckbeak. Facing the Dementors. Outdueling Voldemort in a graveyard. It was all real. And now, it belonged to him.
But it wasn't complete.
Harry hadn't mastered wandless magic. Few did. The wand was a conduit, not a crutch, but a vital one for most. Without it, Mark's magical efficiency dropped to near zero. He needed a focus. Desperately.
And this wasn't Hogwarts. There were no Ollivanders here. No dragon heartstring cores or phoenix feathers lying around in some dusty Diagon Alley shop. But this was Earth-199999. Science here could isolate the Hulk's DNA, recreate the Super Soldier serum, and engineer Vision.
If anyone could build a wand, it was this world.
Mark's mind reeled with ideas. What if adamantium could serve as a focus core? What if he mixed sorcerous relics with vibranium resonance? Could Wakandan technology stabilize magical output? Could Stark's arc reactor miniaturization theories help regulate mana flow? Was it even possible to program enchantments into a technological matrix?
The possibilities weren't just exciting; they were limitless.
"I need a lab," he muttered.
"And a scientist who's open to magic."
Beast, maybe. Reed Richards? Dangerous. Strange? Perhaps, though the Sorcerer Supreme might object to hybridizing mystic arts with science. Still, worth considering. Or perhaps Forge, the mutant technopath with the ability to intuitively design anything mechanical. That would be ideal.
He'd talk to Professor X. Quietly. Discreetly.
Mark leaned back against the seat, arms crossed, mind calculating.
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