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Chapter 79 – The Return of the Forgotten
🕑 Added 2025-04-28 14:27:09 +0000 UTCThe shrill blare of the emergency alarms shattered the midnight calm. Lights flickered violently through the corridors of the mansion.
Bobby Drake stumbled out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The cold tile met his bare feet as he squinted down the hallway. In a blur, a figure dashed past him—Moira MacTaggert, her coat half-thrown over her pajamas, panic written across her face. "Shit, shit, shit—I shouldn't have left Warren!"
Bobby blinked, the last traces of sleep vanishing from his mind. This wasn't a drill. Something was seriously wrong.
Moira skidded to a halt at the grand staircase. Below her, three figures stood frozen—Scott Summers, Alex Summers, and Armando Muñoz—their gazes locked on something terrible. Moira followed their wide-eyed stares—And gasped.
Down at the base of the staircase, illuminated by the flickering emergency lights, stood Jean Grey. Or... what remained of her. Her hand gripped the limp, unconscious form of Warren Worthington III by the wing, as if presenting a broken trophy. Her head bowed slightly, her hair a disheveled halo around her. And her eyes—they glowed an unnatural, searing red. Twin orbs of boiling hatred.
Scott called out, hesitant but desperate. "Jean...? What happened? Why are you—?"
But Jean cut him off sharply—her voice layered, unnatural—a dozen echoes speaking through her. "Silence! Where is the human called Charles Xavier?" The thick psychic pressure in the room almost made it hard to breathe.
From the crowd gathering upstairs, John Proudstar and Piotr Rasputin stepped forward immediately, instinctively placing themselves between the students and the danger.
Piotr barked out. "Students! Leave through the back doors! Get to safety!"
Scott clenched his fists. "But—"
John snapped back. "Now, Scott! It's your turn to lead them. Protect them!"
But the students, flushed with adrenaline and loyalty, refused to move. Calvin Rankin stepped forward defiantly. "Hell no! We're one team. Teacher Warren's still in danger! We're not leaving him behind!" A chorus of agreement rippled through the students, trembling but stubborn, stood their ground.
The ruckus suddenly stilled when Professor Charles Xavier arrived. He rolled his wheelchair down the corridor with solemn determination, positioning himself between the students and the corrupted Jean.
His voice, though quiet, carried authority. "Calm yourselves."
The psychic storm swirling from Jean intensified, but Xavier's mind remained a fortress. He focused only on her.
Jean's—no, the entity's—laughter echoed eerily through the hall. The sound made the very walls seem to shudder. The entity mocked him. "So this is your state of body now? A cripple daring to bind me?"
Xavier didn't flinch. He spoke steadily. "A hatchling must remain a hatchling... just as Jean must be allowed to live her life, to grow without your interference."
The being's eyes flared brighter, her form shimmering with growing power. "How dare you call me a hatchling!"
The psychic energy throbbed against everyone's skin. The weaker students began to sway, some clutching their heads. But Xavier stayed calm. He knew he was buying time. Logan had already been dispatched to retrieve the prototype—the portable Cerebro—their only hope of containing this escalating disaster.
Charles continued, his tone unwavering. "You are still young, volatile. Even now, you leak your energy uncontrollably. You are not ready to take control of Jean Grey."
The entity screamed, a shriek that shook the mansion to its foundation. Above, chandeliers swayed. Windows cracked. The very air hummed with violent tension. And still, Xavier sat firm in his wheelchair, a lone bulwark against the coming storm.
Jean raised her free hand. In an instant, before anyone could react—John Proudstar was ripped off his feet by an unseen force, slammed into the marble floor with a sickening crack. The air froze.
Shock rippled through both teachers and students. Even Piotr Rasputin, despite his reflexes, couldn't move fast enough. Jean's eyes flashed red again—and a devastating psychic push hurled Piotr back like a ragdoll, crashing him into the reinforced walls with a booming THUD that shook the mansion.
The students hesitated—just for a second. That was all it took for chaos to explode. From the sidelines, Remy LeBeau flipped a card between his fingers. "I'm sorry, mon ami..." he whispered.
With a flick of his wrist, the card glowed with kinetic energy and shot through the air like a comet. Jean didn't even glance. She simply swiped her hand lazily—the card's trajectory diverted mid-flight, exploding harmlessly against the wall.
Scott Summers clenched his fists. "She's not herself! Subdue—no lethal force!" he commanded.
Bobby Drake muttered under his breath. "You should tell that to her."
Jean, or the entity inside her, floated a few inches above the ground now, energy swirling like an angry storm around her.
The X-Men moved.
Ororo Monroe was the first. Lightning sparked at her fingertips, coiling into her palms. She raised her arms high and summoned a fierce localized storm, the swirling winds focusing tightly around Jean to bind her movements.
Jean snarled, pushing back with a wave of psychic energy that sent dust and loose furniture flying. But Ororo gritted her teeth, controlling the micro-storm with surgical precision, creating a vortex around Jean, forcing her downward. "NOW!" Ororo barked.
Scott unleashed a carefully calibrated optic blast—a low-intensity beam meant to knock, not kill. The beam struck the vortex, adding to the pressure forcing Jean down.
Jean shrieked in fury. The psychic energy around her flared, and the lightning storm wavered.
Seeing an opening, Calvin Rankin stepped forward. He touched Bobby's shoulder, immediately gaining a layer of ice armor. "Cover me!" Calvin shouted.
Bobby nodded, erecting a thick wall of ice between Jean and Calvin as he charged forward.
Jean reacted too quickly. She snapped her hand—the ice wall shattered like glass, shards spraying outwards.
Anna Marie darted in from the side, grabbing a fallen metal bar, using it as a makeshift weapon. She swung hard at Jean's side.
Without looking, Jean's telekinesis caught the bar mid-swing, then yanked it out of Anna's grasp, sending her sprawling back.
Meanwhile, Petra slammed her hands on the ground, causing the floor to heave beneath Jean's feet—trying to destabilize her flight. Chunks of marble cracked and lifted, throwing Jean slightly off-balance.
Armando Muñoz rushed in next, his body adapting to Jean's overwhelming pressure—his skin turning denser, tougher, resisting the psychic force better than most. He reached for her, but Jean with a mere glare forced him backward, his heels gouging two deep trenches into the floor as he was dragged.
Suzanne Chan whispered hurriedly in Chinese, conjuring a dense mist of condensed air around Jean, limiting visibility, trying to cut her off from perfect line of sight. But Jean's red gaze burned through the mist. With a psychic shove, the mist scattered like torn silk.
Alex Summers stood beside Scott now, his hands humming with concentrated plasma energy. "Brother?" Alex asked grimly. "Together," Scott said.
They both unleashed it—an optic blast and a plasma burst, firing in synchronized unison. The brother's energies spiraled toward Jean.
The entity controlling Jean grinned. She flung her hands forward—and caught both beams mid-air, twisting them, coiling them around herself like a shield. The ground cracked under the pressure.
Bobby didn't wait. He launched a barrage of jagged ice spears at Jean's back.
Jean glanced over her shoulder—and the ice shattered mid-air.
Remy flanked from the other side, a trio of charged cards buzzing through the air like hornets. This time Jean deflected two, but one managed to detonate near her feet, knocking her slightly backward.
Ororo pressed the advantage. She summoned a bolt of lightning, sharp and blinding. It struck Jean directly—and for a moment, the red glow in her eyes flickered.
Scott saw it. "We can do this!" he shouted.
The students and teachers converged again, using everything they had—blasts of energy, lightning strikes, earth tremors, mist and cold. Jean stood at the center of it, screaming, her form wreathed in chaotic, unstable energy.
Cracks began to spread across the marble floor like spiderwebs. The air shimmered from psychic heat. It was working. Bit by bit, they were overwhelming her.
But even as Jean faltered, a terrifying realization gripped them. This wasn't her true strength yet. This was just a fraction. And still, it took all of them to barely hold the line.
Scott wiped sweat from his brow, readying another blast. "We need to end this now," he said grimly. Because if they didn't... there might not be a mansion left to save.
Armando Muñoz wiped the blood from his brow, gritting his teeth against the chaos. "I got an idea!" he shouted to John Proudstar and Piotr Rasputin over the roaring winds and energy.
John ducked under a telekinetic burst. "What?!"
"Throw me at her!" Armando yelled.
John blinked. "You lost your damn mind?!"
Armando didn't flinch. "My power adapts to survive! I can wrap around her—anchor her—and Calvin can mimic me to double the weight! It's the only way to ground her!"
From the side, Calvin Rankin gave a quick thumbs-up. "Seconded! Let's do it!"
Armando and Calvin clapped hands—Calvin's mutation activating instantly, mimicking Armando's adaptability.
John and Piotr exchanged a grim look. Then nodded. Together, they hurled Armando like a cannonball toward Jean. Armando's body twisted mid-air, his cells already shifting and evolving in real time. He slammed into Jean.
Jean shrieked, her red-glowing eyes wide in surprise. Her telekinetic aura flared like a sun about to go supernova.
But Armando clung on—his skin turning to some dense, heavy alloy, his muscles thickening, his body anchoring itself around her energy like an iron vice.
Then Calvin sprinted forward, and leapt, latching onto Armando and Jean, his own body adapting just as rapidly. The triple mass grew heavier and heavier, like a gravitational singularity forming. The mansion floor cracked—but Jean's feet finally touched down.
She struggled, howling in that horrific, layered voice. "You think this is enough?!"
Her power roared outward in a red wave—but it was no longer enough to lift her into the air. Pinned. Grounded. Xavier rolled forward, steady despite the carnage around him. By his side, Logan kept guard, his claws half-drawn, muscles tense.
Jean turned her glowing eyes toward Xavier. She saw it—the strange, shimmering helm he wore over his head. The prototype portable Cerebro. Jean—or rather, the entity inside her—slumped.
Her body went limp, collapsing into Armando and Calvin's grip. Professor Xavier closed his eyes, sweat beading down his forehead. He whispered. "Sleep, child. Return to yourself."
Xavier's mind plunged deep into the chaos inside Jean's mind. It was a war inside, but he pressed on, steady.
In the physical world—the main hall of the mansion was in tatters. Soot-blackened walls. Cracked marble. Furniture turned to splinters. Windows blown out. The students and teachers gathered what strength they had left.
Moira MacTaggert rushed to Warren side, checking his pulse. "Still breathing!" she shouted. Piotr carefully lifted Warren's unconscious body. Together with Moira, they ran for the medbay.
Meanwhile—The others staggered to their feet, coughing from the dust.
Alex Summers looked around wildly. "Hey—HEY—do you see Lorna?!"
Anna Marie shook her head, eyes wide. "No, I don't see her!"
Bobby Drake winced. "She wasn't fighting with us—she must've been..."
Alex muttered. "Shit—where is she?!"
Panic edged into his voice. Meanwhile, Hank McCoy knelt beside Xavier, monitoring the professor's vitals with a handheld scanner.
Logan, arms crossed, stared grimly. "Keep him alive, Hank," Logan growled.
Hank nodded, frowning deeply. "It's not on me anymore," he said quietly. "It's on Charles—and Jean. They're fighting their own battlefield now."
A battlefield of mind and soul. The battle in the mansion had ended. But the battle for Jean Grey's very existence had only just begun.
Inside the collapsed mindscape of Jean Grey, Charles Xavier floated through a maelstrom of chaos. The air around him shimmered and boiled, thick with red energy. The world was distorted—twisted fragments of Jean's memories spun through the void like broken glass. Laughter, screams, whispered regrets—all echoing at once.
Ahead, the core of the storm. a young Jean Grey, curled into herself, surrounded by a swirling inferno of psychic power. And behind her—it waited.
A monstrous fiery bird, far larger than before. No longer a tiny hatchling. It had forced itselves to grow, fueled by fear, chaos, and pain. The Phoenix. It watched him—burning golden eyes locked on his.
Xavier landed gently before Jean, putting himself between her and the beast. He extended his hands slowly, palms up. "Jean... Jean, can you hear me?"
Jean lifted her head, her eyes glassy and wet with tears. "Professor..." she whimpered. "I'm here," Xavier said, voice steady. "I'm here to help you."
The Phoenix flared behind her, its wings spreading wide. "Help?" the Phoenix's voice boomed inside the mindscape, a thousand voices layered into one. "You mean to bind. To cage. Again."
Xavier ignored it. He knelt before Jean. "Your mind isn't ready to hold such immense power. If you try to control it now, it will consume you."
Jean's lip trembled. "Will it go away?"
Xavier closed his eyes painfully. "No," he said softly. "It's a part of you now."
A tear rolled down Jean's cheek. Xavier steeled himself. He pressed his palm against Jean's forehead. His mind latched onto the remnants of the old psychic seals he had placed years ago—the ones meant to contain the vast majority of her untapped telepathic and telekinetic potential.
They had fractured. Now he would strengthen them. He would bury the fire deeper. He would cage it once again. Xavier summoned his full will. Lines of psychic energy formed—intricate knots and weaves of mental fortifications. They slithered like a living script around Jean's mind, reforging the prison.
The Phoenix screamed. A terrible sound that made the mindscape quake. "You dare! AGAIN!" It surged forward. The heat of it burned Xavier's astral form—but he didn't flinch. He poured more of himself into the seal, weaving layers upon layers of psychic bindings. A full suppression of Jean's burgeoning powers.
The closer he came to completing it, the louder the Phoenix roared. Yet—Strangely—at the very final moment, as the last locks clicked into place—the Phoenix... stopped. It watched him. Silent. Still. Almost... smiling. It let him do it.
The thought flickered in Xavier's mind like a dying flame. Why? But he had no time to ponder. The moment the seal finished, the mindscape collapsed around him—breaking apart into shards of light. He was violently ejected from Jean's mind—tossed back into his own consciousness like a man thrown through a hurricane.
In the real world—Charles gasped, his body lurching in the wheelchair.
Hank McCoy grabbed him immediately, stabilizing him. "Charles?! Are you—"
Xavier raised a hand weakly. "I'm... fine."
His vision blurred. His mind staggered under the effort.
But he was alive. And Jean... Jean was stable. For now. Across the destroyed hall, Jean lay unconscious, her breathing soft but even. The students and teachers slowly gathered themselves, faces etched with worry.
Xavier closed his eyes, exhaling. Inside his mind, a single question gnawed at him like a splinter under the skin. Why did it let me? The Phoenix was far more than he had dared to believe.
The remains of the portable Cerebro unit sparked once—then popped with a loud crack! Wisps of smoke curled from its battered shell. Charles Xavier frowned grimly, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It seems the prototype is still far inferior to the main Cerebro," he muttered, voice low and weary.
Hank McCoy, kneeling by the ruined machine, gave a tired smile. "Still... it did the job," he said. "It's working—barely. But it worked." Before they could catch their breath, the emergency comm crackled sharply to life.
Moira MacTaggert's voice spilled out, tense and urgent. "Charles, Hank—you're needed immediately in the medbay. Warren and Lorna are in critical condition."
The blood drained from everyone's faces. For a split second, no one moved—stunned into silence. Then Xavier and Hank bolted toward the medbay.
But Alex Summers moved first—his body reacting before his mind could even process it. "Fuck!" Alex shouted, voice raw with panic. "What the hell happened to Lorna?!" He sprinted after them—shoving past debris, skidding around shattered furniture.
The rest of the students followed without needing orders. Logan, Ororo, and John Proudstar rushed to wrangle the younger students and keep order—but it was chaos, pure and simple.
Medbay doors burst open. Alex was the first to arrive. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. Across the sterile white room, he saw her—Lorna Dane—lying unconscious on one of the beds. Pale. Motionless. Tubes already snaking into her arms. Machines beeping urgently.
Before he could run to her, a firm hand stopped him. Piotr Rasputin. "Alex, wait," Piotr said, his deep voice gentle but unyielding.
Alex struggled against his iron grip—tears already pooling in his eyes. "Let me go! She needs me!" he shouted, voice cracking with desperation.
Piotr didn't budge. He let Alex beat against him, once, twice—small, wild blows fueled by fear. But he didn't flinch. He stood there, silently absorbing it all.
Not because Alex was hurting him—but because he knew that Alex needed someone to take the weight of his terror and helplessness. When Alex's strength finally ebbed, he sagged against Piotr's chest, trembling.
Piotr spoke softly. "Be strong. Not just for yourself... but for her."
Through the medbay windows, Alex watched helplessly. Inside, Professor Xavier, Hank, and Moira worked with grim efficiency over Warren and Lorna. Machines buzzed and whirred. Medical scanners lit up in frantic waves of color.
Warren's majestic white wings twitched involuntarily. Lorna's green hair spread like a broken halo across the bed.
Alex pressed his forehead against the glass, fists clenched. And he prayed. Not to any god he particularly believed in. He just prayed. Please. Please, let her come back.
…
Morning came—but it did not bring the warmth they had hoped for. Instead, heavy snow pelted the broken rooftops of Xavier's mansion, burying the debris under thick, merciless white. The winds howled like wounded beasts through shattered windows.
It was a grim, fitting scene—a white shroud for a battered sanctuary. Inside the medbay, Alex Summers sat rigidly in a metal chair. His eyes never once strayed from Lorna Dane's unconscious form. He hadn't moved for hours.
Scott Summers quietly approached, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in his hand. He offered it gently. "Drink this, brother," Scott said, voice soft. "You need to rest too."
Alex shook his head without looking away. "I can't..." he whispered.
Scott frowned. "You can't stay awake forever."
Alex's voice cracked—raw with guilt. "She asked me to go with her last night... She wanted to bring Jean her Christmas gift... And I said no."
Scott froze. He hadn't known that. He hadn't known the guilt Alex had been carrying all night. He looked at his brother, at the way Alex's hands trembled. At the anguish carved deep into his young face.
Scott sat down beside him. "Stop this," he said firmly. "You can't bring yourself down like this."
Alex squeezed his eyes shut, biting down the rising emotions. Scott simply stayed by his side, a silent presence of support.
Meanwhile, deeper inside the medbay, the atmosphere was no less heavy. Hank McCoy and Moira MacTaggert worked relentlessly over the two patients—tending to the fragile bodies of Warren Worthington and Lorna Dane.
Monitoring vitals. Administering stabilizers. Fighting against the invisible wounds that clawed at their minds.
Then suddenly, Professor Charles Xavier, who had been seated nearby with his hands pressed to his temples, jolted.
Hank immediately turned. "Charles! What's happening?!" he barked.
Charles slowly lowered his hands, his face drawn with sorrow. He shook his head. "They both... went mad."
The words hung in the air like a funeral bell. Moira gasped. "What?! What do you mean?!"
Hank's voice was sharper now. "Elaborate, Charles!"
Charles exhaled slowly—as if gathering strength for what he had to say. He began. "Imagine our lives... like an ant's. You live your whole life knowing only what ants know. Smells. Pheromones. Hunger. Instinct. Now imagine that ant, just for a second... becomes human. Not just sees, but comprehends—love, grief, ambition, guilt... all the infinite complexities of being human."
Hank frowned, already seeing the terrifying implication.
Moira said cautiously. "So... you're saying they went mad by seeing the incomprehensible?"
Charles shook his head solemnly. "Not seeing. Comprehending."
The room was silent.
At the door, John Proudstar and Piotr Rasputin stood watch. They exchanged confused, unsettled glances.
Charles pressed on. "Just like an ant stumbling across a laptop. It would normally see it as a strange, humming surface—meaningless. But now imagine the ant understands it. Suddenly it knows what the keyboard is, what the screen shows... what the code means. It becomes aware of human technology, human emotion... human burdens. And then—" he said softly, "—the ant is turned back into an ant."
Charles lowered his gaze. "It remembers—like an echo—what it can no longer grasp. And it drives it mad."
…
Each of them dreamed. Each of them drifted through the shards—fragments of a time lost, stolen, buried. They saw the missing days. The faces they once loved. The laughter they once shared.
Anna Marie wept silently as she remembered sitting with Warren under a tree, talking about a future where she didn't have to be afraid to touch.
Petra clutched her blanket tighter, seeing herself climbing walls beside Lorna, laughing without a care in the world.
Calvin lay frozen, remembering the first time he mimicked Warren's flight—and crashed headfirst into a tree while everyone laughed.
Armando curled in his sleep, feeling the camaraderie of the old training sessions, the way Warren would ruffle his hair and call him "Iron Kid."
Remy stirred, grumbling something in French, a rare fond memory surfacing—a poker game Warren once rigged just to let him win.
Bobby mumbled in his sleep, grinning for a fleeting second—the memory of Lorna making snow angels beside him in a rare free day.
John Proudstar frowned deeply, remembering quiet talks with Warren, about being more than a weapon, about finding purpose beyond the fight.
Hank McCoy stirred in his chair, haunted by debates late at night, about science and ethics—debates he didn't know he missed until now.
Moira MacTaggert sat upright in her office chair, a tear slipping free at the memory of Warren bringing her coffee, saying, "Even heroes need breaks, Doc."
It all came rushing back. Their bonds. Their history. Their family. Warren Worthington III. Lorna Sally Dane. Two pillars they had loved and lost... because of fear. Because of Charles' decision.
Now, one truth remains. All their memories had returned. All of them remembered everything. But as they each stirred from their dreams, a single question echoed louder than any memory.
Was it truly to protect Jean—? Or was it to protect Charles Xavier's own fear?
Comments
THEREAL_UB94
Please do right by my man Scott summers 🙏. Cyclops is always right!
