**Las Vegas, Nevada – Desert Rose Motel**
The Nevada sun rose with ruthless brilliance, turning the desert into an ocean of fire and gold. Even the merciless star that ruled this wasteland paled before the divine radiance contained within Room 237 of the Desert Rose Motel—a relic of mid-century optimism now surrendering slowly to entropy, much like the mortals who had built it.
Before a mirror cracked diagonally like a scar across the wall, Hela, Goddess of Death, examined the mortal shell she had crafted with the meticulous attention of an artist perfecting her masterpiece. The reflection that gazed back was calculated perfection wrapped in teenage vulnerability—a weapon disguised as innocence.
Sixteen. The number had required careful consideration. Young enough to slip seamlessly into Xavier's collection of damaged prodigies, old enough to possess the poise that would separate her from his most naive wards. Her beauty had been calibrated with divine precision—not the soul-searing, apocalyptic allure that was her birthright as Goddess of Death, but something achingly mortal. Something that would nestle into human memory like a half-remembered dream.
Her skin held the warm olive glow of Mediterranean sunlight she hadn't technically stood beneath in millennia, each golden undertone a deliberate choice. Her hair cascaded in silken waves of rich chestnut brown threaded with auburn fire, designed to catch morning light and suggest humanity's beautiful randomness. The body itself was a study in adolescent grace—lean, athletic without training, elegant limbs that promised future bloom while maintaining the subtle awkwardness of youth still finding itself.
But it was the eyes that had demanded her greatest artistry. Emerald pools deep as Helheim's most treacherous shadows, yet softened, their divine omniscience carefully muted. They spoke of intelligence without revealing omnipotence, resilience without betraying the weight of eternity, pain without the crushing despair of ruling the dishonored dead. Eyes that could belong to a girl orphaned by tragedy, adrift in an uncaring foster system, scraping dignity from scarce resources.
Her lips—full, naturally rose-tinted, designed to tremble with just the right amount of uncertainty—curved into a smile that would have made her father Loki weep with pride. The reflection smirked back with devastating subtlety.
"Perfect," she purred, and even her voice was a masterwork of deception. Gone was the velvet steel that had commanded legions of the dishonored dead, replaced by something tremulous yet strong—a voice testing itself against a world that constantly shifted beneath young feet. Every tremor calculated, every hesitation deliberate.
Behind her on the bed sat a worn backpack, a museum of carefully crafted mortality. Thrift-store clothing bore the perfect patina of wear—not poverty, never that, but modesty hard-won. Forged identification proclaimed her Helen Michaels, sixteen, orphaned three years prior when her parents met their end in twisted metal and broken dreams. A wallet contained precisely the right amount of crumpled bills to suggest survival without comfort, independence without luxury.
It was a narrative sculpted to pierce Xavier's bleeding heart, subtle enough to withstand even Cerebro's invasive scrutiny.
And then there were the abilities.
She flexed her fingers with predatory grace, and reality bent to accommodate her will. A shimmer of green-black energy bloomed across her palm—deceptively harmless at first glance, the tentative projection of an unstable teenage mutant discovering her gifts. The light danced warm and uncertain, volatile in all the right ways. Perfect bait for Xavier's savior complex.
But beneath that carefully constructed illusion lay the truth that would have sent even the bravest X-Man fleeing into the desert night. Blades of pure death coiled in potential, weapons forged in Helheim's fires waiting to be conjured with less than a thought. The ancient birthright of the Goddess of Death, disguised as nothing more threatening than adolescent mutation gone awry.
She let the energy twist and flicker like candlelight in a gentle breeze, then reabsorbed it with casual elegance. For just an instant—barely long enough to register—the conjured edge of a spectral blade shimmered into existence before dissolving back into harmless light.
"Energy projection," she whispered, her smile deepening into something that would have made serpents envious. "Nothing more. Nothing divine. Nothing truly dangerous. Just a frightened girl with powers she doesn't yet understand."
The mortal costume she had selected completed the deception: faded jeans that had seen honest wear, a burgundy sweater with fraying cuffs that spoke of careful mending, sneakers whose soles had begun their inevitable surrender to time. Not poverty—her pride would never stoop to such depths—but dignified survival. The archetypal lost soul Xavier could never resist gathering into his fold.
She turned back to the mirror, tilting her head with feline grace, testing the delicate balance between mortal fragility and divine predation reflected in her false face. The performance was flawless—so perfect she might have convinced herself, if centuries of ruling the dishonored dead hadn't taught her the art of beautiful lies.
Her reflection smiled back with the secret knowledge of goddesses. Every micro-expression had been rehearsed to perfection, every gesture calibrated to suggest strength wrapped in vulnerability. She was Hela, daughter of Loki, rightful heir to Asgard's throne, Goddess of Death and ruler of Helheim—and she was about to become the most dangerous student Xavier's Institute had ever welcomed through its doors.
"Time for the performance of several lifetimes," she murmured, emerald eyes glittering like poisoned jewels behind their carefully crafted veil of mortality.
Through the grimy window, the Nevada desert stretched endlessly toward distant mountains—perfect stagecraft for her grand deception. Far enough from civilian populations to avoid collateral curiosity, close enough for Cerebro to detect the energy signature once she allowed her "powers" to flare beyond her careful control. Isolated enough that the X-Men would come swiftly, grateful for another opportunity to intercept an unstable mutant before tragedy could unfold.
And among them would be him.
The thought sent a tremor of anticipation through her divine essence, carefully hidden beneath layers of mortal performance. Kurt Wagner. The blue-furred teleporter whose faith burned bright enough to illuminate even Helheim's shadows, whose compassion had caught her attention across dimensions. Beautiful in his devotion, magnificent in his contradictions—a creature of demonic appearance who possessed the soul of an angel.
Her lips curved into something far too sharp for any mortal face to contain, the mask slipping just long enough to reveal the predator beneath. "Soon, my beautiful dragon," she whispered, and for an instant her voice carried the velvet steel that had made demons tremble. "Very soon indeed."
She shouldered the backpack with movements that spoke of grace learned through hardship rather than divine birthright, adjusted her sweater with precisely the right amount of self-consciousness, and walked toward the sun-bleached door of Room 237. Every step was measured, every gesture calculated. The transformation was complete—goddess had become girl, predator had become prey, immortal had become achingly, beautifully mortal.
By sunset, she would no longer be Helen Michaels, the phantom orphan of a desert motel. She would be a student at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters. She would be close enough to touch, to study, to test the limits of mortal compassion and divine patience.
And perhaps—if he proved as magnificent in person as he appeared through the scrying mists of her magic—she would allow herself the exquisite luxury of being genuinely surprised. It had been so long since anything in the Nine Realms had managed to catch her off guard.
Helheim had grown stagnant over the centuries, its ruler bored beyond the comprehension of mortals. But here, in this sun-scorched wasteland where hope went to die, something delicious stirred in the cosmic order.
The Goddess of Death was going to school.
And the X-Men had no idea what was coming for them.
—
# Ravencroft Institute - Observation Room 7
The reinforced door to Observation Room 7 opened with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested someone, somewhere, was taking this very seriously indeed. Harry stepped through the threshold with the measured confidence of a man who'd walked into far worse situations wearing far better suits—though admittedly, few had involved sixteen-year-old reality-benders with trust issues the size of continental plates.
The door sealed behind him with an electronic *click* that somehow managed to sound both final and faintly apologetic, as though the security system itself wasn't entirely sure this was a brilliant idea.
Harry surveyed the room with the practiced eye of someone who'd learned to read atmospheres the way other people read newspapers. Sterile white walls. Reinforced glass. Cameras in every corner, their red lights blinking like mechanical heartbeats. And there, curled in the corner chair like a question mark made of shadows and sorrow, sat Wanda Maximoff.
She looked up as he entered, and Harry felt the impact of her gaze like standing too close to a lightning strike. Dark eyes, older than they had any right to be, carrying the weight of family graves and burning cities. Eyes that had learned the cruelest mathematics of loss: that the more you love, the more you have to lose.
"You're not like the others," she said, her voice soft but carrying that distinctive Sokovian accent that wrapped English words in musical silk. Careful. Cautious. The way you spoke when you'd learned that even syllables could be weapons turned against you.
Harry's mouth curved in what could generously be called a smile, though it held more sharp edges than warmth. "Well, that's rather the understatement of the century, isn't it?" He moved toward the chair opposite her with the fluid grace of someone who'd never met a room he couldn't command. "Though I suspect we're both rather fond of understatements in this particular conversation."
She watched him settle into the chair with the focused attention of a wildlife photographer observing a particularly exotic predator. "The air around you," she said slowly, head tilting as though trying to solve a puzzle written in languages that didn't exist yet. "It... shimmers. Like heat rising from summer pavement, but cold. Sharp. And beneath it all..." Her pupils narrowed, and Harry felt the gentle brush of her power against his consciousness like fingers testing the surface of deep water. "Fire. But not fire that burns. Fire that sings."
Harry raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed despite himself. "Phoenix fire," he confirmed with the casual air of someone discussing the weather. "A rather dramatic gift from entities with an unfortunate tendency toward theatrical timing. Think of it as cosmic life insurance for someone with decidedly expensive hobbies."
"Hobbies?" The ghost of genuine curiosity flickered across her features.
"Oh, the usual. Saving the world, preventing apocalypses, occasionally preventing people from destroying themselves." He leaned back, crossing his legs with lazy elegance. "It's surprisingly time-consuming work, really. The paperwork alone is absolutely murderous."
For a moment—just a moment—her lips twitched upward. Not quite a smile, but close enough to qualify as hope. "You joke."
"I never joke about paperwork," Harry replied with perfect seriousness. "Everything else, perhaps, but bureaucracy is sacred. One must maintain proper respect for the machinery of civilization, no matter how rusty the gears."
The air around them settled slightly, reality relaxing like held breath being slowly released. Harry noted the change with the satisfaction of someone who'd just successfully defused a particularly temperamental explosive device.
"You're not pretending," Wanda said suddenly, the observation carrying the weight of revelation. "You actually... know. You know what I am."
"I know what you can do," Harry corrected, his voice gentling but losing none of its underlying steel. "What you *are* is a sixteen-year-old girl who's survived horrors that would break most adults, who's somehow managed to hold onto her humanity despite every reason to let it go. The reality-bending, probability-warping, universe-inconveniencing abilities?" He gestured dismissively, as though rearranging the fundamental forces of existence were roughly equivalent to having an unusual taste in music. "Those are just accessories."
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't the suffocating quiet of interrogation rooms or the hollow emptiness of abandonment. It was the silence that passed between soldiers who'd seen the same battles, survivors who'd learned the same harsh lessons about the price of staying human when the world insisted on taking everything that made humanity worthwhile.
"Why are you here?" Wanda asked at last. Not defiant—she was too tired for defiance. Not pleading—she'd learned better than to hope for rescue. Just... empty. Waiting for another disappointment to add to her collection.
Harry studied her for a long moment, green eyes sharp as cut emeralds. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of quiet authority that made kingdoms pause and listen.
"Because someone should have come sooner. Because you deserve guidance, not containment. Because every person with extraordinary abilities deserves at least one teacher who won't look at them like a weapon waiting to go off." He paused, letting the words settle. "And because—" his gaze intensified, phoenix fire flickering behind human irises "—I suspect you're very, very tired of being afraid of your own heart."
The words hit their target with surgical precision. Harry saw the exact moment they landed—the crack in her carefully constructed armor, pain bleeding through the gaps like light through a shattered prism. The air around them shuddered. Probability hiccupped. The temperature dropped two degrees in the space of a heartbeat.
Across the room, the unplugged coffee maker suddenly roared to life, grinding phantom beans and steaming invisible milk before producing a perfectly crafted cappuccino, complete with foam art that looked suspiciously like a heart.
Both of them stared at it.
"Well," Harry said conversationally, "that's new. Usually reality just rearranges the furniture when I have these conversations. Coffee service is definitely an upgrade."
Wanda's laugh was broken glass wrapped in silk. "They're right to fear me." Tears balanced on her lashes like diamonds on the edge of falling. "When I feel too much, when I want too much... reality breaks. People get hurt. People die."
"People die when power is caged by fear instead of guided by understanding," Harry corrected, leaning forward with the intensity of someone who'd learned these lessons in blood and fire. "Tell me, Wanda—when was the last time someone taught you that your abilities weren't a curse to be suppressed, but a gift to be understood? When did anyone explain that the problem isn't having too much power, but having too little control over it?"
"Never," she whispered, the word carrying the weight of sixteen years of isolation.
Harry smiled then—slow, dangerous, and devastatingly kind all at once. He rose from his chair with fluid grace, filling the small room with sheer presence, his perfectly tailored suit somehow managing to make the sterile institutional space look shabby by comparison.
"Then here's lesson one," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd stared down gods and made them blink first. "You are not dangerous because you have power. You are dangerous because no one's taught you that love is a better conductor than fear. That hope is stronger than despair. That the heart, properly understood, is not a weakness to be guarded against—it's the only compass worth following."
As if responding to his words, the chaotic shimmer in the air began to settle. The temperature stabilized. The coffee maker gave one last satisfied hiss and fell silent, as though embarrassed by its outburst.
"You make it sound simple," Wanda said, but there was something different in her voice now. Not hope, not yet—but maybe the memory of what hope used to feel like.
"Simple?" Harry's laugh was rich and warm, filling the sterile room like sunlight. "My dear girl, nothing about this is simple. What it is, however, is possible. And possibility, I've found, is rather more useful than simplicity when you're trying to save the world."
"And that's what you think I can do? Save the world?" The question carried the weight of someone who'd only ever seen herself as a destroyer.
Harry's smile turned sharp enough to cut diamonds. "I think you can do whatever you choose to do. The question isn't whether you have the power—clearly, you have enough power to make reality itself sit up and pay attention. The question is whether you're brave enough to choose hope over fear."
"Hope," she repeated the word like she was testing foreign currency. "Hope hurts. Hope gets people I care about gets killed."
"No," Harry said, his voice gentle but implacable. "Fear did that." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the phoenix fire flickering behind his human facade. "Hope would have taught you that power shared is power multiplied. Hope would have shown you that you don't have to carry the world alone."
Wanda stared at him as though trying to decode a language that had been lost for centuries. "You would really help me? Even knowing what I am? What I've done?"
Harry's expression softened, though his voice lost none of its cosmic authority. "Especially knowing what you are. What you've done. And more importantly—" he extended his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand "—what you could become."
For the first time since she'd been brought to this place, Wanda Maximoff's smile wasn't careful. Wasn't calculated. Wasn't a mask designed to convince others she was harmless. It was small, trembling, raw with possibility—but real. Hope, reborn in a girl who'd thought hope extinct.
She reached out, her fingers hovering just above his palm, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth of phoenix fire singing beneath human skin.
"Lesson two," Harry said softly, "begins whenever you're ready."
Outside, through the reinforced walls and electronic surveillance, the world continued its slow spin through space. But inside Observation Room 7, two people who understood the weight of extraordinary power sat in comfortable silence, while reality itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what hope might build from the ashes of fear.
—
# Queens Salvage & Restoration - Three Hours Later
Sirius Black stood before the Boss 429 like a conquistador surveying a lost kingdom. The Mustang crouched in the dim light of the garage bay, its long hood stretching out like the neck of some dormant predator. Dust motes danced in the shaft of afternoon sun that cut through a grimy window, settling on metal that had once been Ford's answer to Detroit's horsepower wars.
Gone were the thousand-dollar tailored jacket and Egyptian cotton shirt. In their place, Sirius wore oil-stained coveralls that somehow still managed to look like haute couture on his broad frame. He'd rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with faded scars—souvenirs from a life lived dangerously on both sides of the magical divide.
"Thirty-seven years," he murmured, running one hand along the car's flank with the reverence of a pilgrim touching a shrine. "Thirty-seven years this beauty's been sleeping. Detroit iron at its absolute peak, abandoned but not broken. Not yet."
From his perch on a workbench twenty feet away, Logan Howlett took a long, deliberate pull from his cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily around his weathered features. The old mutant had seen plenty of cocky rich boys in his time—hell, he'd buried most of them—but there was something about Black that kept him interested. Maybe it was the way the man moved, like violence was always an option but never the first choice. Maybe it was the casual arrogance that suggested he'd earned every bit of it the hard way.
"You sure about this, pretty boy?" Logan's voice carried the gravelly rasp of a man who'd gargled whiskey and cigar smoke for the better part of a century. "That ain't just some weekend project car you picked up at a church auction. Boss 429—that's Detroit's middle finger to the insurance companies. They built maybe a thousand of these things, and every single one was designed to tear up quarter-miles and separate amateurs from their dental work."
Sirius grinned, the expression transforming his aristocratic features into something wolfish and eager. "Logan, my friend, I appreciate the concern. Truly. But you're talking to a man who once owned a Triumph Bonneville with stealth enchantments."
"A what now?"
"Flying motorcycle. Could outrun Ministry Aurors while carrying a passenger, a trunk full of contraband weapons, and enough explosive charges to level a small building." He popped the hood with a theatrical flourish, peering into the engine bay like he was opening a Christmas present. "Had defensive wards that could turn aside killing curses, acceleration charms that would make this beast weep with envy, and a silencing charm so effective you could buzz Parliament at midnight without waking a single politician."
Logan snorted, flicking ash in the general direction of an overflowing ashtray. "Flying motorcycle. Course it was. Bet you crashed the damn thing too."
"Repeatedly," Sirius admitted with cheerful pride. "Into the Black Lake, through the roof of Grimmauld Place, once memorably into the side of a Knight Bus—which, for the record, was entirely the conductor's fault for not watching where he was going." He leaned over the engine, hands braced on the radiator support. "But I always got her running again. That's the thing about machines, Logan. They want to run. You just have to listen to what they're telling you."
The massive 429 cubic inch V8 sprawled before him like some mechanical cathedral, all cast iron and steel ambition. To most people, it would have looked like a graveyard—seized pistons, rusted valve covers, decades of neglect turned into a monument to entropy. To Sirius Black, it looked like resurrection waiting to happen.
Logan watched the younger man with the patient amusement of a predator studying interesting prey. "You wizards," he said, shaking his grizzled head. "Everything's gotta be a goddamn Broadway production with you people. This here's American muscle, bub. Five hundred horses of pure Detroit fury, built back when men were men and cars were weapons of mass acceleration. You don't wave a magic stick at it and—"
He broke off as Sirius casually drew his wand—thirteen inches of dragon heartstring and rosewood that had seen more action than most soldiers—and began tracing intricate patterns over the engine bay. The tip glowed with soft silver light, revealing diagnostic charms that painted ethereal outlines across cylinder heads and crankcase.
"You were saying?" Sirius asked innocently, not looking up from his mystical engine inspection.
Logan's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Well, I'll be damned. Magic flashlight actually tells you something useful?"
"More than you might think." Sirius straightened, looking pleased with himself. "Compression's solid across all eight cylinders. Main bearings are true. Block's free of stress fractures. She needs a complete teardown, fresh seals, new gaskets, and..." He leaned closer, sniffing delicately, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Definitely needs an exorcism. Something with a lot of small teeth has been using the intake manifold as a vacation home."
Logan barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the corrugated steel walls. "Probably a whole family of rats. Maybe some possums for good measure. You sure your magic wand can handle pest control?"
"Please. I once cleared an entire pack of werewolves out of a London warehouse using nothing but a levitation charm and a very large shipping container." Sirius ran his hands along the valve covers like he was checking the pulse of a sleeping god. "A few rodents should prove refreshingly straightforward."
"Uh-huh." Logan took another drag from his cigar, studying the wizard with newfound interest. "So what's the real plan here, Black? Strip her down, rebuild her stock, paint her pretty, and call it good?"
The grin that spread across Sirius's face was absolutely predatory. "Oh no, my friend. Stock is for weekend warriors and trailer queens. This beautiful beast is going to be so much more than Ford ever imagined."
"How much more we talkin'?"
"There's a runic enhancement I've been wanting to try. Requires a flawless quartz crystal—clear as mountain water, cut to exact specifications, magically attuned to channel ambient energy." He mimed placing something inside an invisible fuel tank. "The crystal gets anchored inside the tank, bonded to the fuel system through a series of interlinked runes. Once activated, she won't rely solely on gasoline."
Logan's eyes narrowed. "What's she gonna run on then? Unicorn tears and good intentions?"
"Ambient magic." Sirius's voice took on the tone of a professor delivering a favorite lecture. "Environmental energy that exists everywhere but concentrates around certain individuals. Harry, for instance, radiates magical energy like a small sun. As long as he's near the car, she'll have access to a secondary power source that never runs dry."
"So you're building the world's first half-demon Mustang." Logan's voice was flat, but there was a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. "What happens when your magical hot rod decides it don't need gas anymore and starts snacking on pedestrians?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Sirius scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "The runic matrix only interfaces with passive environmental energy. Think of it as... solar panels, but for magic. The car draws power, it doesn't consume souls or develop a taste for human flesh."
"Mostly," he added after a thoughtful pause.
"Mostly?" Logan's voice climbed half an octave.
"Well, there was that one incident with a chariot in ancient Rome, but that was entirely different circumstances. Different runes, different power source, and definitely different safety protocols." Sirius looked up from the engine, his expression radiating wounded innocence. "This design is completely stable. Probably."
Logan stared at him for a long moment, then threw back his head and laughed—a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. You're actually gonna turn this thing into some kind of magical land missile, aren't you?"
"The enhancement will make her more responsive, smoother acceleration, cleaner combustion, and absolutely zero risk of vapor lock or detonation knock." Sirius straightened to his full height, rolling his shoulders with satisfaction. "Ford built her to dominate the strip. I'm going to make her sing arias while she does it."
"And if she decides to take off like your flying bike?"
"Then we'll have the world's most interesting traffic stop." The wizard's grin was absolutely shameless. "But that won't happen. The runes are specifically designed for terrestrial enhancement only."
Logan chewed on his cigar, giving Sirius the long, measuring look of a man trying to decide whether he was dealing with genius or insanity—and strongly suspecting it might be both. "Two weeks, you said earlier. Two weeks to turn this rust bucket into some kind of magical speed demon."
"Three at most," Sirius confirmed, brushing engine dust off his hands like the matter was already settled. "By Harry's birthday, she'll be perfect. Polished chrome, fresh paint, every system rebuilt to specifications that would make Carroll Shelby weep with envy."
"And if something goes wrong? If your magic crystals start glowing funny colors or the engine decides it wants to talk back?"
Sirius's expression turned thoughtful. "Then we'll have learned something interesting about the intersection of magical theory and American automotive engineering. Isn't that worth a little risk?"
Logan exhaled a long stream of smoke, shaking his head slowly. "You know what, Black? You're completely outta your damn mind. But I gotta admit..." He paused, studying the way Sirius stood beside the car like he was already planning victory laps. "I actually believe you'll pull this off."
"Of course I will." The arrogance in Sirius's voice was tempered by something harder, more determined. "This isn't just about the car, Logan. It's about giving Harry something that's purely his. Not some hand-me-down from his parents, not some artifact with tragic history attached. Just raw American power and the freedom to use it however he sees fit."
"Even if 'however he sees fit' includes magical modifications that probably violate several laws of physics?"
"Especially then." Sirius's grin turned absolutely wicked. "After all, what's the point of having a godfather if he doesn't teach you how to break rules with style?"
Logan barked another laugh, raising his cigar in a mock toast. "You're crazy, Black. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane."
"Thank you," Sirius replied solemnly. "I do try."
"Question is," Logan continued, "will it still be a car when you're done with it, or are we gonna have to start calling it Lord Mustang, Destroyer of Speed Limits and Devourer of State Highways?"
The wizard considered this seriously, tilting his head as if weighing cosmic possibilities. "Would that necessarily be a bad thing?"
Logan took one last long pull from his cigar, then flicked the butt into the shadows with practiced accuracy. "You know what? Probably not. Hell, might even be an improvement."
"Now you're thinking like a proper anarchist," Sirius said approvingly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, Logan."
"Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable. I still think you're gonna blow yourself up trying to turn that engine into some kind of magical rocket motor."
"Only one way to find out." Sirius rolled up his sleeves with renewed purpose, approaching the Boss 429 like a surgeon preparing for a particularly delicate operation. "Besides, what's life without a little creative risk-taking?"
Logan watched him for a moment longer, then shook his head and headed for the door. "I'm gonna go find some more beer. Something tells me I'm gonna need it for this project."
"Excellent idea," Sirius called after him. "And Logan? Maybe pick up some insurance forms while you're out. Just in case Lord Mustang decides he needs proper documentation."
The sound of Logan's laughter echoed off the garage walls long after he'd disappeared into the afternoon sun.
---
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