Storm on the Horizon

Patience was a virtue, or so she had always been told.

For someone in her line of work, patience was just as much a weapon as a knife or a well-placed bullet. It was the quiet tool, the one that required discipline and restraint, the kind of control that separated a professional from an amateur. Natasha had spent years mastering it, honing her ability to wait, watch, and strike only when the moment was perfect.

Yet, despite all her experience, despite all the missions she had undertaken—from infiltration to high-stakes assassinations—there were some assignments that tested her patience far more than any life-or-death situation ever could.

This was one of them.

Pretending to be a high school teacher was certainly a new experience. She had taken on many identities before, slipped into different roles as effortlessly as breathing. But nothing had prepared her for the sheer, mind-numbing patience required to stand in front of a classroom full of hormone-fueled teenagers and pretend she was actually supposed to be here.

At first, it had been amusing.

A room full of impressionable young boys too busy ogling her to focus on the lesson, stumbling over themselves whenever she so much as made eye contact. She had grown used to being watched, had endured the gazes of powerful men who thought they could own her. But there was something especially grating about enduring it from teenagers.

Clint would never let her hear the end of it if he ever found out.

She could already picture the way he'd smirk, the way his voice would drip with amusement as he teased her about being stuck playing babysitter. "What, the great Black Widow can take down an entire Hydra facility but can't handle a few high school boys making heart eyes at her?"

She nearly rolled her eyes at the thought.

But a job was a job.

But this job?

It was turning out to be far more interesting than she had initially expected, well worth the gruelling test of patience.

Her mission was clear-cut—observe and report.

Bayville had become a hotspot of mutant activity, and S.H.I.E.L.D. needed eyes on the ground. The official objective was simple: study the three confirmed mutants attending Bayville High—Hank McCoy, Robert Drake, and Warren Worthington III. Gather intel on their capabilities, their social circles, and determine whether they posed a threat.

Yet, despite her orders, they weren't the ones who had her full attention anymore.

Scott Summers had become her priority.

At first, he had been just another student. One that—on paper—shouldn't have stood out among the others. His school records showed nothing remarkable. No criminal history. No real ties to any known mutant factions. Just another orphan bouncing from place to place before eventually ending up at the Xavier Institute.

Yet, in the short time she had been here, he had already made her instincts scream.

Something about him didn't add up.

She could still remember the exact moment he had caught her attention. The first time she stepped into this classroom, she had felt it—a brief, sharp moment of recognition. Every other student had been distracted by her appearance, either flustered, intimidated, or intrigued.

But not Scott.

Scott had looked at her and immediately analyzed her.

There had been no gawking, no hesitation, no awkward stammering. His eyes had flicked to her, his body tensing instinctively before he forced himself to relax, as if he had realized—too late—that he had given himself away. It was a mistake a seasoned operative would make when encountering another professional in the field.

That had been her first sign that he was not normal.

Since then, she had watched him more closely than the others. She had paid attention to how he carried himself, the way he seemed too controlled, too disciplined for someone his age. She had seen how his eyes were always scanning, calculating, how he walked with the quiet confidence of someone who was always expecting danger.

But over the past few days?

He had become even more tense.

Something had changed.

Whatever game he had been playing before—the act of a normal student, the careful balance of blending in while still subtly leading the other mutants in their training—was slipping.

He was distracted now.

Unfocused.

On edge.

Right now, as she finished her lesson, her sharp eyes caught the way he sat rigidly in his chair, his fingers tapping almost imperceptibly against his desk in a rhythmic pattern—a soldier's habit. When the bell rang, and the students began to shuffle out of the room, Scott didn't immediately leave.

He lingered for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking to hers.

He knew she was watching him and she knew he was watching her back.

That sealed it.

Something was happening.

Scott Summers was preparing for something, and Natasha intended to find out exactly what it was.

She leaned back slightly, tapping her fingers against the desk as she watched him disappear into the hallway. If her—and Fury's—suspicions were correct, then Scott Summers was far more dangerous than anyone had given him credit for. After all, he was the common denominator in every major incident that had happened in recent weeks.

The attack on Oscorp?

The train fight in Illinois?

The battle in Dunfee?

The prison break in Fort Washington?

Every single event had one unaccounted-for mutant involved. A ghost, someone who moved too fast, too efficiently for S.H.I.E.L.D. to track. They had no identity, no confirmed intel, and yet the pattern was clear.

Now, watching the way Scott Summers carried himself, watching the way he walked out of the classroom like a soldier about to go to war, Natasha was starting to believe what Fury had suspected all along.

Scott Summers wasn't just involved.

Scott Summers was the ghost.

More importantly, whatever he was preparing for now, she would make sure she was ready.

-X-

The mansion was quieter than usual.

Not eerily so, but in a way that made the silence noticeable. The kind of quiet that came before a storm. Warren, Bobby, and Hank sat sprawled across the sitting room, their usual casual ease replaced with something tense, contemplative. The conversation Scott had dropped on them yesterday still lingered in the air, their thoughts grappling with the weight of what it meant.

An assassin.

The Marauders—dangerous, high-powered mutants who had already proven they were lethal threats.

Worst of all?

They were now targets, caught in the middle of a battle they barely understood.

Warren was the first to break the silence. "So… we're actually doing this, huh?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wings twitching slightly against the couch. His voice wasn't nervous. If anything, there was a tinge of excitement behind it.

Bobby scoffed, throwing his arms over the back of the couch. "You sound way too happy about that, man."

Warren shrugged. "Not happy. Just… I dunno. I've been itching for a rematch with Tombstone since New York." His wings flexed at the memory, the feeling of helplessness that came with being smashed into the ground still fresh in his mind. He hadn't forgotten how Tombstone had manhandled him, nor did he intend to let it happen again.

Hank sighed, adjusting his glasses. "I think you might be underestimating how dangerous this is." His voice was calm but firm, the weight of logic grounding his words. "It's not just about your personal vendetta, Warren. We're dealing with an unknown assassin, a man who—let's be honest—has probably killed a lot of people before. Not to mention the Marauders, who Scott himself admitted he barely got out alive from fighting."

Bobby tilted his head. "Scott won, though."

"Barely," Hank countered.

"Still won." Warren smirked, but Hank wasn't convinced.

Bobby leaned back, crossing his arms. "I don't know, man. I mean, yeah, this is bad. But we've already been in fights before. We handled Fort Washington. We fought back against guards with guns. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"You didn't fight though. Warren and Scott did. Plus, fighting security guards isn't the same as fighting trained mutant killers," Hank reminded him.

Bobby hesitated, then sighed. "Yeah…fair point."

Warren rolled his eyes. "Come on. You're telling me you're not at least a little eager? I mean, we're training to be X-Men, right? This is what we signed up for."

Bobby shot him a look. "Dude, I signed up to be a superhero, not to get assassinated."

Warren smirked. "You say that like superheroes don't have people trying to kill them all the time."

"…Also a fair point."

Hank shook his head. "I think the difference here is that we don't even know who this assassin is. We're dealing with an unseen threat while also being aware that some of the most dangerous mutants Scott has ever faced might be in town. It's reckless to act like this is just another fight."

Bobby huffed. "Scott's planning for it, right? He's got it covered."

Warren leaned back with a sigh. "Yeah. And that is what worries me the most." Bobby and Hank glanced at him curiously and Warren continued, "Scott's always prepared. That guy doesn't make a move unless he's already planned five steps ahead. But have you noticed how on edge he's been?"

Bobby nodded slowly. "Yeah. He's been quiet. More than usual."

Hank adjusted his glasses. "He's probably preparing."

Warren nodded. "Yeah, that's what I think too. He's the type to plan for the worst-case scenario, so whatever's coming? He's already bracing for it."

Bobby groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh. I hate worst-case scenarios. Why can't it ever be best-case scenarios?"

"Because we don't live in best-case scenarios, Bobby," Hank muttered.

Before the conversation could continue, Jean entered the room, drawing their attention. "Where's Scott?" She asked.

The three boys exchanged glances before Warren shrugged. "No idea. He's been keeping to himself more than usual."

Hank sighed. "Most likely preparing."

Jean looked thoughtful, then turned back to Warren. "You've fought alongside Scott more than any of us. What's he like in a fight?"

Warren blinked, then scratched the back of his head. "Uh… I dunno. Didn't really see much."

Jean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we did a pincer move in New York, right? I got taken out pretty early by Tombstone, and Scott just ran off to do his thing. Then when he attacked Oscorp, I was kinda…y'know…strapped to a medical bed and in and out of consciousness."

Jean narrowed her eyes. "Okay…what about Fort Washington?"

Warren laughed, shaking his head. "I was kinda busy fighting myself, remember? I didn't exactly have time to watch Scott."

Jean turned to Bobby and Hank. "You two?"

Hank raised his arms. "I wasn't there."

Bobby smirked. "I was watching Warren get his ass kicked."

Warren scowled. "Dude."

Hank and Jean laughed as Warren muttered curses under his breath.

Bobby grinned before continuing, "But when I did look at Scott? Most of the guards were already down. Like…the dude moves fast."

Hank nodded. "Same. When I caught a glimpse of him in Dunfee, it looked like he was completely in control. Like he already knew how things were going to play out before they even happened."

Warren leaned back, smirking. "Yeah. That's Scott's thing. He always says, never enter a fight you're not sure of winning. And if you do? Don't hold back."

Bobby exhaled through his nose. "Y'know…I kinda wanna see him fight for real."

Warren nodded. "Same."

Hank adjusted his glasses. "Me too, actually."

Jean's gaze flickered with growing curiosity. "Have you guys never seen him spar Logan?"

They blinked and looked to one another in question.

"You haven't either?" Bobby asked.

Jean shook her head. "No. But I've only been here a short time."

Hank tilted his head. "Scott doesn't actively take part in training often. Not unless Warren's getting close to beating his record in the obstacle course, or Bobby in target practice, or Warren again in memorization. He only steps up to set a new record for us to chase."

Jean raised a brow. "So he can fight. He just…doesn't?"

Warren shrugged. "More like he only fights when he needs to."

Jean tapped her fingers against her arm, thoughtful. "New York. Dunfee. Fort Washington…" she murmured.

Bobby looked at her curiously. "Why?"

Jean smirked. "I think I'm gonna do some research of my own."

She turned and walked off, leaving the boys watching after her.

After a moment, Bobby sighed. "Man, she's hot."

Warren grinned. "Called dibs."

Bobby immediately sat up. "The hell you did!"

"I just did."

"Bro code!"

"First come, first serve."

As the two started arguing, Hank simply shook his head, exhaling through his nose.

But…he had to admit.

He was curious about Scott too.