X-GENE OMNITRIX-Chapter 53: XGO - 51

The late afternoon sun, usually a benevolent artist painting the Gothic architecture of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in strokes of warm gold, felt weak, distant, almost ashamed, as if recoiling from the scene unfolding below. An unnatural quiet, thick and heavy as unshed tears, had fallen over the sprawling Westchester County estate. It wasn't peace; it was the suffocating vacuum before a detonation, broken only by the frantic, dry rustle of fallen autumn leaves skittering across immaculate lawns like panicked whispers carrying bad news. Inside the cavernous common room, the usual vibrant symphony of teenage life—debates over quantum physics echoing off high ceilings, laughter mingling with the soft thwump of textbooks levitated by nascent telekinesis, the easy camaraderie of shared difference—was replaced by a chilling tableau of shared anxiety. Thirty-seven students, a mosaic of ages and burgeoning abilities, from wide-eyed pre-teens barely understanding their new reality to young adults honing years of control, sat frozen, their collective gaze locked onto the massive flat-screen television dominating the far wall. The breaking news banner, stark white letters screaming against a pulsing blood-red background, felt like a personal indictment: "MUTANT ATTACK ON WHITE HOUSE - PRESIDENT UNHARMED - BROTHERHOOD SUSPECTED."

Bobby Drake, Iceman, sat rigidly on the edge of a velvet armchair, his knuckles bone-white where he gripped the ornate wood. Unconsciously, moisture condensed around his fingertips, forming intricate, razor-sharp ice fractals that grew and dissolved in rhythm with his shallow, rapid breaths. The air immediately around him shimmered with an unnatural cold, a localized frost patch creeping across the polished mahogany table beside him like a miniature glacier advancing. Kitty Pryde, Shadowcat, perched precariously on the armrest, noticed the spreading ice and placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. Her touch flickered, momentarily intangible as her phasing ability stuttered under the ambient stress, before solidifying with a conscious effort. Bobby startled, the ice vanishing instantly, leaving faint condensation trails. "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his chilled fingers together, the nervous habit momentarily forgotten but the underlying fear intensifying. Nearby, Jubilation Lee, Jubilee, couldn't keep still; tiny, nervous fireworks popped and fizzled between her fingers, casting brief, erratic flashes of pink and yellow light across her wide, terrified eyes, miniature distress flares in the dimming room [cite: 807-810].

Rogue remained slightly apart, drawn instinctively to the tall bay window overlooking the west lawn, though her gaze wasn't focused on the familiar, peaceful landscape. Her usual posture—a blend of Southern ease and hard-won confidence—was gone, replaced by a coiled, defensive tension. Beneath the worn leather of her gloves, violet energy, the alien, overwhelming echo of Alex's Mewtwo form she'd absorbed days prior during the battle at the Statue of Liberty, pulsed like a captured, furious storm . It was a constant, low-frequency hum beneath her skin, a universe of psychic power she barely comprehended, let alone commanded. It responded to the fear tightening its grip on the room, swirling like restless oil on water, amplifying her own anxiety. The news from D.C., the blatant accusations, the predictable, rising tide of human fear—it all vibrated against the alien power within her, creating a nauseating dissonance that left her feeling exposed, raw, vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt since the early days after her powers first manifested, before Xavier offered her sanctuary.

The fragile quiet didn't just break; it shattered. The deafening, rhythmic roar of military rotors descended upon them, drowning out the frantic whispers and the muted television commentary. This wasn't the sleek, futuristic whine of the X-Jet, nor the purposeful thrum of SHIELD quinjets they occasionally saw patrolling restricted airspace. This was the brutal, percussive sound of war machines—heavy-duty troop carriers, painted in the drab, anonymous green of the U.S. Army, materializing suddenly over the treeline like monstrous, metallic locusts preparing to swarm. Heads snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief turning rapidly to raw fear. The helicopters hovered aggressively, low enough for the powerful downdraft to flatten the grass in violent waves and send leaves swirling in frantic, chaotic eddies. Ropes snaked down with military precision, disgorging dozens upon dozens of soldiers in full black tactical gear. They moved with terrifying synchronicity, boots hitting the lawn with practiced silence, forming an immediate, disciplined perimeter around the mansion, assault rifles held at the low ready, creating an intimidating, inescapable wall of black armor and lethal intent [cite: 4738-4739].

Logan was a blur of raw motion before the first shrill blast of the mansion's internal alarms even began their piercing wail through the halls. He hadn't needed the klaxon; his senses, honed over a lifetime defined by violence and survival, had screamed danger the moment the rotors breached the outer perimeter's airspace. The scent was unmistakable, cutting through the crisp autumn air: hot metal, aviation fuel, the sharp tang of gun oil, and beneath it all, the primal, acrid scent of human fear mixed with the cold, detached aggression of soldiers following orders. His adamantium claws had erupted from his knuckles with that familiar, visceral snikt—a sound more instinct than conscious decision, the readiness of a warrior who had faced down armies—before his conscious mind fully registered the scale of the invasion. He burst through the heavy oak doors of the Danger Room, leaving behind a flickering holographic simulation of a hostile Shi'ar marketplace, and skidded to a halt on the polished marble floor of the entrance hall, a low, menacing growl rumbling deep in his chest, vibrating the very air around him.

Students poured from classrooms, the library, the recreation rooms, their faces a kaleidoscope of confusion morphing rapidly into stark panic. Rogue reacted instantly, shoving aside her own swirling unease, her years of X-Men training overriding the chaotic power surging within her. "Basement levels! Now!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the rising clamor with surprising authority. She physically guided a group of the youngest, most terrified students—some crying openly, others frozen in wide-eyed shock—towards the reinforced stairwells leading to the subterranean safe zones designed for precisely this nightmare scenario. "Move it! Stick together! Do not stop for anything!"

Outside, the ring of soldiers tightened, their movements disciplined, coordinated. From the lead helicopter, a figure rappelled down with a speed and precision that seemed almost unnatural for a man of his apparent age. General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross landed firmly, his polished boots making barely a sound on the manicured lawn. He surveyed the scene—the magnificent, historic mansion now under siege, the frightened young faces peering from windows, the lone, defiant, claw-extended figure of Wolverine on the steps—and his face remained an impassive mask carved from weathered granite, betraying no hint of hesitation or remorse . He raised a military-grade loudspeaker, his amplified voice booming across the grounds, a cold, impersonal hammer blow against the rising panic, designed to shatter morale.

"This is General Thaddeus Ross of the United States Armed Forces," the voice declared, devoid of inflection or the possibility of negotiation. "By order of the President, this facility is under investigation for harboring unregistered mutant assets involved in terrorist activities. All occupants are ordered to surrender immediately. Lay down your arms, disable all mutant abilities, and assemble on the front lawn. Compliance will ensure no casualties. Non-compliance will be met with necessary force."

Behind Ross, specialized units moved with chilling efficiency, deploying tripod-mounted devices. Rotating satellite dishes atop them began to emit a low, almost subsonic hum, a vibration that resonated unpleasantly in the very bones and fillings of the mutants present—suppression technology, newer, more potent than previous iterations . The effect was immediate and debilitating for many. Younger students cried out, clutching their heads or chests as their nascent abilities flickered out like snuffed candles. Kitty Pryde gasped, stumbling as her hand, reaching to steady Bobby, passed through his arm entirely, her phasing ability suddenly, terrifyingly uncontrollable before vanishing completely, leaving her feeling horribly solid and vulnerable. Bobby's desperate attempt to conjure an ice shield dissolved into a pathetic puff of chilled mist, leaving him exposed.

"Ross, you calculating bastard!" Logan roared, stepping further down the wide marble stairs, positioning himself as a living, adamantium-laced shield before the main entrance, where Rogue was frantically trying to herd the last group of straggling, terrified pre-teens inside. "You come onto school grounds, threaten kids? There ain't a hell deep enough for your sorry hide!"

Rogue turned back, planting her feet, facing the soldiers, the violet energy around her hands sputtering erratically like faulty neon signs under the suppressor field's influence, yet still undeniably present—a testament to the sheer, alien magnitude of the power she now contained, fighting against the dampening waves. "We ain't done nothin'!" she yelled, her Southern drawl thick with righteous fury. "Whatever happened in D.C., it wasn't us! You got no right storming a school!"

"Surrender is not optional, mutant," Ross repeated, his voice unchanging, utterly dismissive of their pleas, their rights. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod to the soldiers closest to the mansion. "First squad, secure the entrance. Non-lethal takedowns only—for now. Restrain all hostiles. Eliminate primary threats if necessary."

The soldiers advanced, a disciplined wedge of black armor and raised transparent riot shields, stun batons crackling ominously with arcs of blue electricity, plasticuff restraints dangling ready from their utility belts. Logan met their advance not with words, but with a feral roar that echoed his namesake, a primal sound of defiance that momentarily halted the soldiers in their tracks. "Kids, stay the hell back! Let ol' Logan handle the welcoming committee!"

The initial clash was a maelstrom of brutal, close-quarters combat. Logan, even with the suppressor field subtly leeching his legendary strength and slowing his healing factor, fought like a cornered demon. Adamantium claws, harder than any shield, sharper than any blade, became flashing arcs of controlled destruction. He shredded transparent shields like paper, sliced through armor plating, deflected stun batons with contemptuous ease, the impacts sending showers of sparks into the air. He moved with a low, coiled grace, a predator in his element, disabling soldiers with swift, incapacitating strikes—a broken arm here, a dislocated shoulder there—avoiding lethal force by ingrained habit, but ensuring they wouldn't be getting back up.

The older students, those whose physical mutations or sheer willpower allowed them to push through the dampening field's effects, rallied behind him. Piotr Rasputin roared as he transformed into Colossus, his massive, organic steel form becoming a nigh-invulnerable bulwark, absorbing stun blasts and kinetic rounds with resonant metallic groans but holding the line at the doorway, preventing soldiers from breaching the entrance hall. Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler, embraced the chaos, becoming a disorienting phantom of indigo smoke and sulfur—bamf bamf bamf—appearing and disappearing in bursts of sulfurous indigo smoke, disarming soldiers with flicks of his prehensile tail, tripping them with unexpected low sweeps, teleporting them momentarily into walls (just enough to stun, not embed), creating confusion and disrupting their formations, though each jump clearly cost him more effort, leaving him momentarily breathless in the moments between teleports [cite: 801-802]. Jubilee, frustrated by the dampening field reducing her explosive plasmoids to mere firecrackers, adapted with surprising tactical acumen, unleashing rapid-fire bursts of blinding white light directly into the soldiers' visors and disorienting strobes of clashing colors that induced momentary vertigo, disrupting their coordination and aim [cite: 807-810].

For several desperate, adrenaline-fueled minutes, they held the line. They fought with the ferocity of those defending not just a building, but their home, their family, their very right to exist. They pushed the first squad back, the disciplined soldiers stumbling, regrouping behind their remaining shields, their expressions shifting from professional confidence to wary respect, mixed with a dawning fear. They hadn't anticipated this level of coordinated, desperate resistance from "students."

Ross watched the setback from his command position near the helicopters, his face impassive, but a vein pulsed rhythmically, visibly, at his temple—the only outward sign of his mounting impatience and cold fury. He raised his radio, his voice cutting through the din of battle with chilling clarity. "Suppressor field intensity to seventy percent. Deploy Task Force X. Neutralize primary resistance. Objective Nightingale takes priority."

From the hovering helicopters, a second wave descended. These were different. They moved with an unnatural speed that left afterimages, landed with ground-shaking force that cracked the pavement, or carried themselves with an aura of contained, lethal power that screamed mutant. One figure, skin shimmering like polished granite, slammed into the ground like a meteor, the impact sending shockwaves across the lawn. Another blurred past, moving faster than the eye could comfortably follow, a streak of pure velocity. A third's hands crackled ominously with contained thunderstorms of raw concussive energy, the air around them smelling of ozone. Mutants. Military assets. Task Force X. Turned against their own kind.

"He's using... our own kind?" Kitty Pryde gasped again, her voice barely a whisper, filled with horrified disbelief from behind the stone balustrade where she shielded a younger student with trembling, iridescent wings. The betrayal inherent in the act, the use of mutants to hunt mutants, struck deeper and colder than any physical blow.

The arrival of Task Force X shattered the students' fragile defense like a hammer blow to glass. The granite-skinned mutant absorbed Colossus's mightiest blows—punches that could dent tanks—with barely a grunt, returning bone-jarring impacts that buckled the X-Man's organic steel plates and sent him staggering backward, metallic groans echoing with each hit. The speedster, anticipating Nightcrawler's teleport patterns with uncanny precision, ran literal circles around him, landing a flurry of disorienting blows before Kurt could fully rematerialize, finally catching him mid-bamf with a vicious, calculated clothesline that sent the blue elf crashing heavily to the ground, stunned. The energy-blaster engaged Jubilee directly, his focused beams of raw concussive force punching through her weakened light shows with contemptuous ease, throwing her back against the mansion wall hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

The students were overwhelmed. The intensified suppression field crippled their already strained powers, while Task Force X, likely equipped with personalized shielding technology or possessing abilities less susceptible to the dampening effect, pressed their advantage relentlessly, clinically. Logan found himself battling both the speedster and the granite mutant simultaneously. He fought with the desperate fury of a cornered wolverine, claws flashing, weaving, dodging, but he was constantly forced onto the defensive, unable to land a solid blow. His healing factor, already sluggish under the field's influence, couldn't keep pace with the relentless damage inflicted by the speedster's thousand-cut attacks and the granite mutant's bone-jarring impacts. With a final, perfectly timed, coordinated maneuver, the speedster darted through Logan's guard, a blur of motion, slapping a secondary, more potent dampening collar around Logan's thick neck