The First Move

Scott let out a slow breath as he pulled the towel from his head, shaking out his damp hair before tossing the fabric onto the chair beside his bed. His muscles ached faintly from the relentless training sessions Logan had put them through, but he ignored the discomfort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, dressed in nothing but his boxer shorts.

Reaching for his phone, he tapped in the familiar number, pressing the device to his ear as he leaned back slightly against the headboard. The line rang a few times before a familiar voice answered—blunt, impatient, and carrying the sharp edge of irritation.

"Cyclops." Scott could practically picture Callisto's unimpressed expression on the other end. She wasn't exactly thrilled to be hearing from him, but that wasn't his concern right now.

"Callisto," he greeted, keeping his voice even. "I assume you've seen the news?"

There was a brief pause, followed by a scoff. "Yeah, I saw it. Not exactly subtle, is it?"

"Not even close." Scott exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Tell me what really happened."

He heard the faint rustling of movement on the other end before Callisto finally spoke. "Pretty much what the news has been saying, though with a little less of the Bugle's usual anti-Spider-Man spin. Peter was out playing hero—despite both Otto and me telling him to lay low for the time being—when Goblin ambushed him. They fought, and Peter was starting to get the upper hand. But then some poor bastard was about to get crushed by falling debris, and, like the good little hero he is, Parker jumped in to save them."

Scott closed his eyes for a brief moment. He could already tell where this was going. "That's when Harry got him," he guessed.

"Bingo." Callisto sounded unimpressed. "Kid lost his focus for one damn second, and that was all it took. Goblin tore his mask off in the middle of the fight. Peter still managed to win and get away, but it was too late—the damage was done. The whole city knows his face now."

Scott let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. It was exactly as he'd pieced together from the reports, but hearing it laid out like this made it feel even worse. "Have you seen him since?"

"No." Callisto's voice held a note of frustration. "Kid's been holed up at home with his aunt. Hasn't left. Not that I can blame him."

Scott could picture it—Peter stuck inside, watching as the world turned against him, knowing there was no way to take it back. He didn't expect any less. "That protest outside his house isn't going anywhere," Scott murmured.

"No, and I don't like it." There was a rare hint of real concern in Callisto's tone now. "Curtis and Otto are keeping an eye on things. They've gotten close to the kid since hanging around with the Morlocks. But it's not sitting right with me, Cyclops. You know how these things go—one moment it's a protest, the next it turns into a damn riot. And the cops aren't doing a damn thing to break it up."

Scott wasn't surprised. "Norman's got too much influence in law enforcement. He's been pouring money into the police for years—equipment, training programs, all of it. This is his doing."

Callisto made a sound of disgust. "Figures. And I bet I know why. He wants Parker to lose it. He wants the kid to snap, lash out—hell, maybe even fight back. That way, he can twist the whole thing in his favor."

"Exactly." Scott ran a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet sigh. "It's about the long game. The public's perception of Spider-Man is already shaky thanks to Jameson's smear campaign. Norman's feeding into that, making Harry out to be the hero of New York while Peter becomes the villain. If Peter reacts emotionally and does something rash, Norman can spin it to further alienate him. The more people turn against Peter, the harder it'll be for him to bounce back. And the more heroic Harry looks, the stronger Norman's position becomes."

"I hate all this PR and politics," Callisto muttered.

Scott let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well, welcome to my world."

There was a brief silence between them before Callisto finally sighed. "So, what's your play here, Cyclops? Because I don't like where this is headed."

Scott took a moment before responding. "Peter needs to move. Staying in that house isn't safe. Sooner or later, that crowd's going to turn ugly, and when it does, he won't be able to fight his way out without making things worse."

"Yeah, no kidding. But you really think Parker's gonna leave his aunt alone?"

"No." Scott knew Peter well enough to know that wasn't going to happen. "Which is why you need to tell him to keep his head down. If he lets himself get baited into a fight, he'll be playing right into Norman's hands."

Callisto didn't respond right away, but when she did, there was a grudging note of agreement in her voice. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. But I'm telling you right now, Cyclops—this whole thing is a powder keg, and it's gonna blow sooner or later."

Scott closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah. I know."

Not only did he know, Scott wasn't sure if he could stop it.

Scott let out a slow breath, throwing his phone onto the bed before letting himself fall back against the mattress, arms spread out as he stared up at the ceiling. His mind was a constant whirl of calculations, contingencies, and possibilities, yet no matter how many variables he accounted for, there were always unexpected factors.

Peter's exposure, the looming presence of Sabretooth, the possibility of the Marauders lurking in Bayville, and the unknown assassin sent by Winston Frost—it was all converging at once. A collision course of dangers, each demanding his attention.

Scott had always known that planning could only get him so far. He could prepare as best as possible, anticipate likely outcomes, but he wasn't omniscient. He couldn't predict everything, and he certainly couldn't control everything. He hadn't expected everything to unravel so quickly, but there was no use lamenting about how unfair it was.

No, this was a result of his choices.

The consequence of his actions.

Blaming bad luck or circumstance was a waste of time. Running wasn't an option. Neither was waiting for more information—he had enough to act. Now was the time he needed to force his enemies to make a move.

Scott sat up abruptly, exhaling sharply through his nose before pushing himself off the bed. He moved to his wardrobe, pulling open the doors with practiced efficiency. Reaching inside, he grabbed a pair of black cargo pants, stepping into them with precision as his mind continued to run through the scenario he was about to create.

Sabretooth was here to find him.

Whether Sabretooth followed Sinister's orders was irrelevant. The Marauders did. If they were in Bayville, they wouldn't just sit around. They'd come for him eventually. If Sabretooth was sticking around to confront Logan, then the rest of the Marauders would be free to come after him.

If the hitman was in Bayville then they would act as soon as they saw an opportunity. So the moment he gave them an opportunity, Scott knew they would bite.

As Scott's mind whirled, he pulled out a skin-tight, long-sleeved black top, slipping it on over his torso. The material clung to him snugly, fitting close to his frame. It wasn't his X-Men uniform, but it would serve the same purpose—it was light, flexible, and wouldn't hinder his movement in a fight.

Reaching for the zip-up jacket hanging in his wardrobe, he slid it on and fastened the zipper halfway. Then, crossing the room, he made his way to the bottom drawer of his desk. It opened with a quiet scrape as he pulled it free.

Inside was his go-bag.

A black duffel bag sat neatly folded in the drawer. Scott grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder before retrieving the other items inside—a black cap, a tactical half-mask, and a pair of black gloves. He worked efficiently, slipping the gloves on first, flexing his fingers to ensure they fit snugly. Then, tucking the mask into his pocket, he grabbed his phone and swiftly typed out a message.

Scott: Making a move tonight.

Logan's response came quickly.

Logan: Got it.

Logan: I'll keep Creed busy.

Scott nodded to himself. That was all the confirmation he needed. Logan would handle Sabretooth, which meant he was free to deal with the bigger threats—the Marauders and the hitman. If they were here, he was going to find them first by making them come to him.

Tugging his cap down low over his face, Scott slipped his phone into his pocket and turned for the door. He walked with quiet precision, his footfalls barely making a sound against the hardwood floor of the hallway.

As he rounded the corner of the corridor, a door clicked open behind him as Jean stepped out of her room.

She was dressed comfortably in a pair of loose cotton sports shorts and a tube top, clearly prepared for a night of relaxation. But the moment she caught sight of Scott rounding the corner and disappearing from sight, her entire posture shifted. Her sharp eyes immediately took in his attire—the dark clothing, the gloves, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

She didn't need telepathy to tell that he was up to something.

Jean hesitated for only a second, glancing down at her outfit. Her attire wasn't exactly suited for following him, but that wasn't going to stop her. Biting her lip in thought, she flicked her fingers, using her telekinesis to pull her oversized hoodie off the bed and into her hands. Shrugging it on swiftly, she zipped it up and pulled the hood over her hair.

Scott was clearly about to do something reckless.

But Jean wasn't about to let him do it alone.

Keeping her steps light, she followed after him, her pace careful but steady. If Scott was heading toward something dangerous, she was going to find out what it was—and she wasn't letting him face it alone.