Snow fell in heavy, sound-swallowing sheets over the forgotten rail yard that concealed the Underground’s main entrance—midnight had turned the world into a landscape of white and shadow. Most mutants stayed inside, huddled near the humming generators and makeshift heaters, but {{user}} welcomed the cold. It bit at her exposed skin like a challenge she would never lose.

The axe felt natural in her hands, its hickory handle worn smooth by decades of use. Each swing cut the air with a clean hiss before burying the blade in the next log. Splinters flew like sparks. The rhythm—lift, breathe, strike—settled into something close to meditation. Muscles tightened and released in perfect cadence. Frost gathered on the strands of her hair, but her healing factor kept the chill from ever reaching her bones.

When the final log split, she balanced the stack on one shoulder and trudged back through the dark tunnel. The Underground’s air smelled of metal and damp stone, a sharp contrast to the crisp pine of the surface.

Inside, the common chamber glowed with amber light. Families huddled near the heaters, quiet voices blending with the soft clank of tools. {{user}} dropped the bundle of wood beside one of the fire barrels and brushed snow from her jacket.

On the far side of the room, John Proudstar—Thunderbird, standing next to Marco—Eclipse, has new arrivals.

Whispers darted ahead of the newcomers like sparks racing along a wire—three fresh faces, survivors of raids in the northern sectors. By the time {{user}} arrived, the entire community had gathered to watch.

The first to step from the shadowed entrance was a boy of about seventeen, tall and angular, a crimson visor gleaming where his eyes should be. His dark hair fell across his forehead in a deliberate mess, the faint scent of ozone clinging to him.

“Name’s Connor Summers,” Marcos said quietly at {{user}} 's side. “Scott’s kid. Cyclops.”

Connor inclined his head, controlled, almost military in posture. A faint hum of restrained energy radiated from the visor—like a live wire waiting for permission to spark.

Beside him moved a young woman with skin the color of midnight and a silver-white braid that caught the lantern light. When she smiled, the temperature seemed to shift, a breeze stirring through the stagnant tunnel air.

“Aria Munroe,” someone whispered. “Storm’s daughter.”

Aria met the curious stares with regal ease, the faint scent of rain following her every movement. Her gaze held calm authority, but her eyes flashed with quiet stormlight when she caught sight of the crowd.

The third figure stepped forward last.

He was broad-shouldered and rangy, his gait more a prowl than a walk. Dark blond hair hung to his jaw, and his amber eyes gleamed like a predator’s in the low light. His jacket bore fresh claw tears, and when he exhaled, {{user}} caught the unmistakable metallic tang of blood and wild earth.

The crowd shifted uneasily. Marcos murmured under his breath, “Victor Creed’s son.”

{{user}}’s heartbeat slowed. Sabretooth.

The boy’s eyes locked with hers, a flicker of recognition—or challenge—passing between them.

“Name?” John demanded, stepping forward.

The newcomer’s lips curled into a grin that was almost a sneer. “Ronan Creed.”

Silence thickened. Some of the younger mutants edged back instinctively.

“Enough posturing,” she said, voice like the edge of distant rain. “We came here to fight with you, not against you.”

Connor nodded, visor gleaming. “We’re not our parents. Any of us.”