Twilight_Scribe
patreon
Chapter 174 – A Not-So-Leisurely Retirement
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 17:05:34 +0000 UTC
France. Paris, 2nd arrondissement. Rue de la Paix.
This street, with its quaint old-world charm, was also one of the most fashionable shopping streets in the world.
On the surface it was the very picture of French nonchalance and leisure. Garbage was swept to the side, chic young women strutted along the road. But if you leaned in close, you’d catch the heavy scent of perfume—masking an undercurrent of sour odor.
Ask anyone—man or woman—and they’d insist the smell came from the trash on the ground. Never from themselves.
Such contrasts coexisting in the same place—that was the French spirit of romantic freedom. Whoever came here would remember it vividly.
At a street-side café, two elderly men—past their prime but enjoying a semi-retired life—were playing chess.
Scenes like this weren’t uncommon in the fashion capital, and no one would bother them. …Usually.
Today, however, a burly man in a black coat sat down heavily at the table beside them, despite the sweltering summer heat.
He was a large white man, with deep brown hair streaked gray at the temples. His angular face radiated toughness and experience—anyone could tell at a glance he wasn’t someone to trifle with.
Most striking of all was the black eyepatch covering his left eye. He looked every bit like a pirate who had sailed the seas a century ago.
The two chess-playing old men weren’t pleased by this uninvited guest. Still, they didn’t send him away. They let the waiter serve him a cup of black coffee.
“You ought to try the café au lait here. At least it isn’t so terrible,” said the bald elder in the wheelchair.
The one-eyed man replied, “Doesn’t matter. It’s not the main character.”
The other old man—short-haired, gaunt, with the weathered look of someone who had seen too much—smirked and said, “So. You here to arrest me? I didn’t know France was your jurisdiction.”
“Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage, Logistics Directorate—S.H.I.E.L.D.—operates under the U.N. Security Council. We have jurisdiction everywhere.”
“Oh? Then by all means, read me the warrant and slap on the cuffs. I can’t promise what’ll happen, though.” The old man bared his teeth in a grin, one that was more menace than mirth. Having his chess game with an old friend interrupted—he wouldn’t mind causing a scene.
But the one-eyed man didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned back and said, “I’m here to ask questions, not make arrests. Surely you don’t think I’d come alone if that were my intention.”
“No comment.”
“Ask.”
Two answers, two attitudes. The two friends exchanged a glance and added:
“I won’t talk.”
“I might not have an answer.”
One hard refusal, one soft dodge—same result. The one-eyed man had expected as much. He pressed on anyway:
“Where’s Jean Grey?”
“Don’t know,” said the bald man flatly.
“You renamed the school after her—‘The Jean Grey School for Gifted Youngsters’—as a memorial. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you’ve just washed your hands of her.”
The bald man in the wheelchair—Professor Charles Xavier—answered, “That was a joint decision by Raven, the current headmaster, and others. I’m retired. It’s no longer my concern. Even if we still cared, what then? Drag her out for a government trial?
“If the White House still wants the X-Men under their command, let them reinstate the hotline to the team at the base. Talking to me won’t do you any good.”
“You know that’s not what we want,” the one-eyed man said.
“Spare me, Nick Fury. No need to spout half-truths in front of me. I don’t even need to read minds to know you’re speaking nonsense. Yes, you could choose not to lie to me, or even make promises. But you don’t represent your entire organization, do you?”
Nick Fury’s tone was ironclad: “I will not allow a hidden threat to remain at large.”
“Then I want a presidential pardon,” Professor Xavier countered. “Signed, sealed, with full legal force. Amnesty for Jean’s actions.”
“The White House gave you one chance before—in exchange for an alien warship. You didn’t deliver.”
Charles bristled. “On that battlefield, every scrap of alien wreckage was recovered by the U.S. military. The X-Men kept nothing. Why assume we could secure an intact warship without support?
“Where was the military? We waited half an hour and not one jet showed up. Go ask the soldiers who were there—see if a squad of infantry could capture a starship. We’re mutants, not gods!
“In any case, without a pardon, I’d rather Jean stay hidden, safe. Because you and I both know—whether it’s a mutant control facility or even the X-Men—keeping her under your watch is just another kind of prison.
“At least this way, I can help her live as a person, not rot in a lab as a test subject or waste away in a cell.”
Nick Fury had resources enough to find Jean Grey if he truly wanted. The question was: how to bring her in?
Having Charles Xavier persuade his surrogate daughter was the easiest option.
If force was used… a mutant who could go toe-to-toe with a starship? Fury had no solution. Even his Howling Commandos might not be enough.
But negotiations always followed the same pattern: start with an impossible demand, then offer a compromise that seemed reasonable by comparison.
So Fury shifted gears. “Fine. Then what about the other one—the clown? Who is he, and where is he?”
At that, the man who had stayed silent—Magneto, Erik Lensherr—finally spoke, his voice laced with disgust.
“That lunatic? He’s like a grenade with the pin pulled and the safety lever released.
“You know it’s going to blow. All you can do is hurl it as far away as possible before it takes you down with it. Trust me—you do not want to keep him in your hand.
“Of course, I wouldn’t mind that grenade going off inside your precious ‘Strategic Hazard’ agency. I’d even enjoy the show. But don’t think we care where he is. Go check the asylums—you’ll find plenty like him there.”
Fury slid a photo onto the table. “Is this the clown?”
The photo showed a Hollywood prodigy—youngest-ever Best Actor at Venice—River Phoenix.
Professor Xavier frowned. “And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“My analysts reconstructed his facial features from limited surveillance footage, stripping away the paint and grease, rebuilding the contours. This is what they came up with. Is it him?”
No one had considered that the Kryptonian could reshape his features by controlling his facial muscles. So the reconstruction turned into someone else’s face. Xavier, who had seen Henry’s true appearance, never thought his painted disguise could be an entirely different visage.
For reasons of his own, Xavier decided to keep the young man’s secret. The X-Men weren’t obligated to share intelligence with the U.S. government anyway. And after all, it was the military’s blunders that had escalated things against Magneto.
Whenever Washington intervened, good people tended to get pushed toward extremism.
So Xavier shook his head. “I don’t know. Verify it yourselves.”
Fury pressed, “Then why did he help you?”
“Maybe he’s just a passing good Samaritan,” Xavier deflected.
Magneto snorted and added, “Or maybe he’s just insane. And insanity—by definition—cannot be predicted, can it?”
