CHAPTER 101 – THE LAST GAME
The afternoon sun spilled gold across Xavier's lawn, warm enough to make even the mansion look friendly. Moira set down her tea with a sigh.
"It's my last day here, lads. Tomorrow I'm back to Muir Island."
The words dropped like a stone.
Banshee almost choked on his drink. "What? Yer leavin' already? Och, no, Moira, that won't do. Not without a proper sendoff."
Storm arched a brow. "And what do you suggest, Sean? A serenade?"
"Better," Banshee said, grinning. "Baseball."
Minutes later the X-Men were on the field, makeshift bases staked down, bats in hand. Cyclops adjusted his visor like he was calculating ballistics. Colossus loomed at the plate, bat like a toothpick in his hands. Nightcrawler crouched behind him as catcher, tail flicking.
Logan cracked his knuckles, stepping to the mound. "Alright, tin man. Let's see if ya can swing that farmboy strength or just look pretty."
Storm floated in the outfield, cloak fluttering like wings. Sunfire crossed his arms, already muttering about "this ridiculous American pastime."
"PLAY BALL!" Banshee shouted, his voice carrying farther than the bat ever would.
The game was chaos from the start. Colossus swung — the bat splintered in half. The ball trickled two feet.
"Safe!" Nightcrawler yelled anyway, teleporting him to first base.
"Unfair!" cried Sunfire.
"Creative interpretation!" Kurt countered with a grin.
Jean batted next, smacking the ball skyward with a telekinetic nudge no one quite caught. Logan went for the catch, leaping higher than humanly possible — and landed flat on his back as Storm sent a gust to push the ball just out of reach.
"Cheap shot, Ro!" Logan barked, brushing grass off his hair.
"It is called strategy," she teased.
By the fifth inning Logan's cigar had gone out twice, his team was down by five, and his mood was fouler than a swamp rat. Colossus hit a home run that actually set off car alarms across the street.
"Game!" Banshee shouted, hands raised.
Logan tossed his glove to the dirt. "Bah. Rigged game anyway."
Jean walked past him, smiling gently. "It's just for fun, Logan." She squeezed his arm once, then drifted to Scott's side. He slid his hand into hers, their fingers lacing easy.
Logan lit a fresh cigar, eyes narrowing as smoke curled. Sooner or later, Jeanie… sooner or later you'll see me. Not him.
The team flopped into the grass for a breather, laughter dying into lazy chatter. That's when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," Moira said, dusting off her hands. "It must be the phone repairer."
"Yeah? Let's all roll out the red carpet," Logan muttered, rising with her. He sniffed the air — and froze.
That smell. Hostility sharp as blood in water.
Banshee noticed the sudden stillness. "What's wrong, Logan?"
Logan's eyes narrowed. "I smell somethin' bad waitin' behind that door. Don't spook the others. Let's check it quiet."
They reached the hall. Moira gave Logan a side glance. "Didn't expect you to be such a gentleman, Wolverine."
He smirked. "Don't get used to it, darlin'."
Banshee kept his hand near his belt, tense. "I'll trust your nose, Logan."
Moira swung the door open. A pistol gleamed in the visitor's hand.
Before the shot cracked, Logan moved. Reflexes snapping like a whip, he yanked Moira aside, claws bursting free with a snikt. In two strides he was on the gunman, metal against metal, knocking the weapon wide.
It was no ordinary thug. The intruder's skin shone with plated metal, half-human, half-machine. Warhawk.
Logan slammed him into the wall, claws pricking the wiring under his skin. "Bad call comin' here, tin man."
Warhawk raised a fist to fire — but Logan's strike was faster. The claws tore through circuits, and the cyborg went limp, crashing unconscious to the floor.
---
By the time the others gathered, Warhawk was shackled in the mansion's sub-level.
Xavier pressed his fingers to his temples, scanning the fractured mind. His brow furrowed.
"He is brainwashed. Not by mutant telepathy, but by machinery. Crude, invasive. This man is only a pawn."
Cyclops clenched a fist. "Can you free him, Professor?"
"It will not be easy," Xavier said, sweat already shining on his bald head. "But I can try."
The room went silent as his mind pressed deeper. Circuits screamed in resistance. Xavier pushed harder, untangling knots of code and memory until at last the barriers crumbled.
Warhawk gasped awake, eyes clear for the first time in years. Tears welled. "I… I'm free?" He looked at Xavier like a child. "You… saved me."
Xavier smiled gently. "Only after you register with the police, my friend."
Warhawk nodded, trembling, but relief broke across his face.
The X-Men watched in silence as Moira called the authorities.
When the door closed behind the freed man, Storm's voice was hushed. "If he was only a pawn… who commands the board?"
The question lingered heavy. No answer came.
Only silence — and the scent of an enemy still out there.