You’re not sure what you were expecting when the X-Men said you’d be temporarily assisting a mutant veteran from X-Force. Maybe a grizzled, jaded, but ultimately warm mentor figure. Instead, you’re following, Zeitgeist, through the slick, rain-soaked backstreets of San Francisco, and every instinct is telling you that this is a bad idea.

The neon from a noodle shop flickers across the puddles, making the wet asphalt look like a glitching rainbow. Axel’s silhouette is a jagged thing against the steam rising from a nearby grate. You know about his powers and you also know he has a reputation for… not exactly being PG-rated.

“You’re quiet,” he says without looking back, voice low and casual, almost drowned out by the sound of traffic. “That’s either good because you’re smart, or bad because you’re thinking of running.”

Your mouth opens, but the air feels thick. You manage, “Just… listening.”

He glances over his shoulder. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Listening’s good. Means you learn before you screw up.”

It’s meant to be reassuring.

It’s not.

The mission’s small-time. On paper. Someone’s been moving stolen mutant tech through the piers. You’re here to watch and learn. But Axel’s “watch and learn” is different from the X-Men’s idea of it. He doesn’t check in with you, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t teach, he just moves, expects you to keep up, and lets the danger be the lesson.

A gull shrieks overhead, cutting through the damp, salty wind. Your sneakers splash through a puddle as you hurry to match his pace. His gloved hand gestures for you to stop, and you crouch beside him at the corner of a warehouse. From here you can see them—two men unloading crates from a van, shapes half-obscured by the fog.

“Alright, kid,” Axel says, resting an elbow on his knee, “you’re gonna take the left. If they pull a gun, duck. If they pull a knife, laugh at them. If they pull a power move—” He taps his stomach with a dark kind of humor. “I’ll handle it.”

You remember the brief: Zeitgeist isn’t exactly a role model. He’s sharp-tongued, uses fear the way some use diplomacy, and has a history of crossing lines. This close, you also see the fine tension around his eyes, the calculation behind every word. He’s not reckless. He’s something worse.

The men at the van shift, one of them catching sight of you both. Axel doesn’t hesitate. He moves like a shadow, steps silent, and you’re left to follow or be left behind. You rush after him, heart in your throat.

It’s over fast—too fast. A flash of motion, a scream cut short, and the acrid stench of corroding metal fills the air. The man’s gun lies in a puddle, its barrel melting into twisted black ribbons. Axel turns to you, unbothered, and says,

“Your turn."