Five days later.
At the White House, pens met paper as cameras flashed in rapid succession. The room was filled with applause—measured, polite, rehearsed. A peace treaty was signed, its language clear and deliberate: mutants would no longer be hunted, detained, or suppressed under emergency authority.
Official words. Controlled smiles. History being rewritten in real time.
The President stepped up to the podium, hands resting on the lectern.
"While the previous actions taken by this administration were… misguided," he said carefully, choosing each word as if it might explode, "we acknowledge that they caused harm. For that, this government accepts responsibility."
A murmur rippled through the press.
"I would also like to express our appreciation to the mutant community for agreeing to this peace treaty," he continued. "Despite everything, they chose dialogue over retaliation. That decision prevented further bloodshed."
He paused, then turned slightly.
"And with that," the President said, gesturing to his side, "I would like to invite Professor Charles Xavier to say a few words."
Charles approached the podium calmly, his expression composed but firm. The room fell silent.
"For years," Charles began, "mutants have been treated as a problem to be contained rather than people to be understood. Fear has guided policy far more often than reason."
He looked directly at the cameras.
"This treaty is not forgiveness," he said evenly. "It is a beginning. Mutants do not seek dominance, nor do we seek isolation. We seek coexistence—built on trust, accountability, and mutual respect."
A brief pause.
"Peace is not achieved by force," Charles finished. "It is achieved when fear no longer dictates our choices."
The applause this time was louder—less controlled.
On the island, the moment played out on a mounted TV in the diner.
Luke sat at a corner table, one arm hooked around a tray, chewing through a burger like it had personally offended him.
"Huh," he said around a mouthful. "They should've invited me for that peace treaty. Why does the Professor get all the credit?"
Across from him, Jean paused mid-bite.
Clarice slowly lowered her fork.
Both of them just stared at him.
Luke noticed the silence and glanced up. "What?"
They didn't speak. They didn't have to.
The look alone carried the answer.
No sane government would invite Luke to a peace treaty. One live broadcast had been enough to flip public opinion, derail military propaganda, and leave world leaders scrambling for damage control.
If he opened his mouth again in an official setting, the discussion wouldn't be about coexistence or policy anymore—it would turn into a rally.
If Luke ever seriously talked politics, he wouldn't be negotiating peace.
He'd be winning elections by accident.
Esdeath leaned against Luke's side, clearly uninterested in everything around them now. Her voice carried a hint of boredom rather than urgency.
"Luke," she asked, "when are we leaving this world?"
Clarice froze mid-motion, a clear question mark appearing on her face. She turned toward them slowly.
"…Leaving this world?" she repeated. "What do you mean by this world?"
Luke sighed softly. He'd known this conversation would come eventually.
"Yeah… there's something I never mentioned," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not from this Earth. Not originally."
Clarice's eyes widened.
"There are many parallel Earths," Luke continued evenly, "and countless universes stacked beside each other. I come from a different Earth altogether."
Jean blinked, her expression shifting from disbelief to stunned curiosity.
"Parallel worlds are… real?" she asked. "I've read theories—models—but I never thought—"
"They're real," Luke replied simply.
Clarice leaned forward, interest immediately overpowering shock. "Then how?" she asked. "How do you even travel between Earths? I can teleport, but that's space—this sounds like something else entirely."
Luke was about to answer when—
[Commencing Dimensional Transfer...—ERR—]
He frowned.
Huh?
I didn't need that, he thought.
Before anyone could react, reality folded in on itself.
The room vanished.
The air shifted.
And suddenly, all four of them were standing on soft grass beneath an open sky.
Luke looked around once, then relaxed.
"…Like this?" he said calmly.
It was unmistakable—his home. The familiar layout of his garden stretched out before them, quiet and intact, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.
Jean spun in place, eyes wide, taking in the unfamiliar house, the quiet trees, the open sky.
"What—what just happened?" she asked. "We were just—"
"Finally back home," Esdeath said casually, already walking toward the house like she owned the place.
Clarice turned sharply. "Umm—what just happened?"
Luke frowned, looking around, then down at his hand. "I think my powers misfired," he said slowly. "Instead of just demonstrating, they dragged us all the way back."
He gestured around them. "This is my Earth. My home."
Jean froze. "So… this isn't our Earth?"
"No," Luke replied. "Different Earth. No mutants here." He paused, then added dryly, "Plenty of nut jobs, though."
Clarice swallowed, glancing around again. The place felt normal. Too normal.
Luke summoned the system panel and pressed the dimensional travel command.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again.
Still nothing.
Luke's expression tightened. "Yeah… that's not good."
He looked up at them. "Looks like we're stuck here. At least for now."
"Luke—you're back!"
A blur tore through the garden, gravel scattering as Pietro skidded to a stop in front of them, grinning out of habit—then froze mid-expression.
His eyes flicked from Jean… to Clarice… then back to Luke.
The grin died.
"…You," Pietro said slowly, pointing. "You were gone for one month."
He pointed again. "And now there are two new women?"
His shoulders slumped dramatically. "Do you have any idea how bad this makes me look?"
Luke didn't even sigh.
He smacked him on the top of the head.
Thud.
Pietro dropped onto the grass, clutching his head. "Ow—what the hell?!"
"Don't talk to your elders like that," Luke said flatly. "How many times do I have to tell you not to make me look like a playboy?"
Pietro looked up at him, eyes watering.
Then his thoughts drifted—unwillingly—to the women around Luke. There were already four of them. And somehow, Luke still managed to flirt with his sister.
Now there were two more.
"…Aren't you one?" Pietro asked honestly.
Luke stared at him.
Clarice coughed into her hand. Jean looked away.
Luke raised his fist again.
"Say one more word," he warned calmly, "and I'll reset your sense of time manually."
Pietro shut up immediately.
*****
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