THE SUMMONING
The pearl doors of the Atlantean amphitheater groaned as they opened, ancient hinges moving like shifting tectonic plates under the sea. Light spilled out in rippling bands, illuminating the massive chamber beyond. The newcomers stepped through cautiously—seven weapons forged in a lab, stepping into the heart of a kingdom untouched by Reaper ruin.
The air was warmer here than in the corridors, infused with bioluminescent currents that drifted like slow-moving constellations. Coral spires rose from the marble floor in spiraling formations, glowing faintly where Atlantean runes pulsed beneath their surfaces. Overhead, the dome shimmered with layered wards that held back the crushing weight of the ocean.
But none of the seven hybrids were looking at the architecture.
They were looking at the eyes watching them.
Dozens of mutants stood across the amphitheater—some scarred, some exhausted, all battle-hardened. Elixir with dimmed golden hands. Firestar with a gentle ember-glow in her eyes. Shatterstar poised like a living blade. Darwin calm and unreadable. Domino leaning lazily against a coral pillar, though her gaze locked sharply on each hybrid in turn.
And at the forefront—
Magneto.
His armor was battered. His cape was torn. But he stood like a monument to survival itself. A man who refused extinction.
His gaze locked instantly onto Alloy.
The crackle of electromagnetic tension struck the room like a silent bolt. Alloy stiffened as Magneto extended one hand—fingers curling barely half an inch.
And Alloy moved.
Dragged forward across the stone in a way that felt instinctive and wrong.
Organic steel rippled across Alloy's skin, magnetism flaring on reflex. He pushed back—every cell in his engineered body screaming at the pull—but Magneto didn't even flinch.
He was a mountain.
Alloy was a boulder rolling toward him.
Stryke stepped forward. "Stand down!"
But Magneto didn't look at him.
Not yet.
He studied Alloy with the precision of a scientist and the grief of a father.
"I know this resonance," Magneto murmured. "Lorna Dane."
The air grew colder.
Elle's eyes widened. Shade's breath caught. Even Bul found himself standing straighter.
Magneto continued, voice quiet but steel-sharp:
"You carry the echo of my daughter's power."
Alloy swallowed hard. "I… feel something when you pull. Familiar, but wrong."
Magneto released him gently. Alloy stumbled back, catching himself before he hit the ground—more shaken by the emotional weight of the exchange than by the physical tug.
"My daughter is gone," Magneto said. "But something of her remains in you."
The hybrids didn't miss the shift in his tone. It wasn't acceptance.
It wasn't rejection.
It was reckoning.
Cable stepped out next, his techno-organic eye humming as it analyzed the seven newcomers. "They're stable. No Reaper corruption. And their signatures… they're strong."
Domino offered a crooked smirk. "They look like trouble. Sinister always did enjoy making his messes complicated."
Surge scoffed. "You wanna test complicated? Come closer."
Vex touched his arm softly. "Not now."
Before tension could spike further, the water at the far end of the chamber split apart in a perfect vertical line.
No splash.
No ripple.
Just absolute command of the ocean.
A figure rose from the depths.
Dark hair slicked back like obsidian. Skin bronzed by the sun and sea. Armor of emerald and gold wrapped across his chest. Eyes black and sharp as shark teeth.
Namor.
King of Atlantis.
The First Prince of the Deep.
He stepped onto the marble, water sheets rolling back like obedient servants. His presence hit the room like a tidal shift—pressure and authority in physical form.
"Enough posturing," Namor said, voice deep and resonant.
"Let them speak."
Magneto inclined his head just enough to acknowledge him—not submission, but respect shared between kings.
Namor walked toward the seven hybrids, circling them with the slow, deliberate movement of a predator assessing prey—or potential allies.
"You arrive unannounced," Namor said. "You disrupt my wards. And one of you nearly collapsed half of Atlantis' southern ley-lines."
His gaze fell on Vex, whose breath hitched.
"I—didn't mean—"
"No," Namor agreed. "But power rarely waits for intention."
He stopped before the group, posture regal, unreadable.
"You carry Sinister's mark," Namor said. "But you do not carry his purpose. And that makes you an unknown."
Surge muttered, "You could just ask our names."
Namor didn't blink.
"I did not ask for your names."
He leaned in slightly.
"I asked for your purpose."
And the amphitheater fell into absolute silence.
---
THE KINGS
The silence after Namor's question pressed down like the deep ocean above them—vast, heavy, cold.
Stryke stepped forward first. Not because he wanted to—but because everyone else looked at him. Leadership wasn't a title. It was instinct. And instinct moved his feet before his thoughts caught up.
"Our purpose," Stryke said evenly, "is survival. And stopping the Reapers if we can."
Magneto's gaze sharpened, reading the tone beneath the words.
"Survival," Magneto murmured. "A minimal ambition."
Surge scoffed loudly. "We just woke up in a dead lab, fought our way through collapsing ice, stabilized a magical reactor in your basement, and walked into your war room. You're welcome."
Cable's head turned slightly, almost amused. "He reminds me of Logan."
"Logan had restraint," Domino said under her breath.
Surge bristled. "Say that again—"
Bul grabbed Surge by the collar and pulled him back like someone lifting a kitten. "Not now, little explosion."
Shade moved between them before more sparks flew, calm and deliberate. "Focus."
Vex nodded, still pale from her earlier surge of magic. "Please. Let's not start a war inside the one place that hasn't fallen yet."
The hybrids slowly fell back into a loose formation.
Namor studied them with the eerie stillness of deep sea predators—no blink, no shift, no wasted movement.
"Sinister created you," Namor said. "Engineered you. Shaped your powers without your consent." His eyes narrowed. "Is that correct?"
This time, Elle answered. Her voice was calm but carried weight. "Yes. But we aren't his."
Magneto raised an eyebrow. "You say that as though identity can be chosen."
"It can," Elle replied. "Or we wouldn't be standing here."
Magneto considered her for a long moment—just long enough for Alloy to feel the magnetic hum shift in the air. Alloy braced, expecting another pull, but it didn't come.
Not yet.
Namor clasped his hands behind his back and began circling the dais again, his steps soft but firm.
"You stand before a council of the last mutant strongholds," Namor said. "Every person in this chamber has fought for decades. Some of us for a century. We do not bend for strangers."
"And we're not asking you to," Stryke said.
Namor stopped walking.
"You misunderstand," Namor said. "This is not a negotiation."
Magneto stepped forward slightly, cape shifting like a dark tide.
"They must defend their existence," Magneto said. "Not with words—but with truth."
His hand rose just a fraction, and the metallic components in Alloy's body vibrated in warning.
Alloy clenched his jaw. "You want truth? I don't know who I am. I don't know why Sinister made me. But I know what I won't be."
"And that is?" Magneto asked softly.
"A weapon controlled by someone else."
The response struck something in the older mutant's expression—a faint flicker of recognition, or memory. Hard to tell.
Domino muttered, "Well. He's definitely got the Colossus stubbornness."
"And the Wolverine temper," Cable added.
"And apparently my daughter's magnetic signature," Magneto said tightly.
Alloy looked down. "I… didn't choose any of that."
"No," Magneto agreed.
"But you chose to resist me."
"And I'll do it again," Alloy said, steady.
A thread of tension snapped silently in the air—so taut it nearly hummed.
Namor broke it.
He stepped into the center of the dais, turning to address both the Resistance and the hybrids.
"Enough."
His voice rolled through the chamber like a command wrapped in thunder.
"We do not waste time. The Reapers have razed continents. Assimilated armies. Consumed civilizations. They scour the world for power."
He looked at the seven creations—one by one, slowly, assessing everything from posture to pulse.
"You are new," Namor said.
"You are untested."
"You are… different."
He paused.
"And difference has value."
Cable stepped forward, arms crossed. "We need numbers. We need power. We need anything that gives the Reapers trouble."
"And you believe they can," Magneto said—this time not as skepticism, but as a challenge.
Cable nodded. "If Sinister built them for war, then we can use that. We evaluate. We test. Then we deploy."
Namor's gaze hardened. "But not in Atlantis. Not in my kingdom. This place remains hidden. It remains untouched."
Firestar stepped forward, warming the air around her. "Namor's right. If the Reapers find this place—it's over."
Domino gave a sharp nod. "We barely kept the last incursion out."
Darwin added calmly, "Adaptation doesn't matter if the whole city is found."
The truth settled across the room like a cold tide.
Shade finally spoke—her voice calm, thoughtful, precise. "We don't want to endanger Atlantis. We came because Vex needed stabilization. Now that she's safe, we'll leave."
Namor's eyebrow lifted in faint amusement. "Leave? To where? The world above is ash."
Elle stepped forward now, gaze fierce.
"Then show us where the Resistance stands," she said. "Let us help."
Namor considered her, reading her sincerity.
Magneto spoke next—slow, deliberate.
"You say you are not Sinister's creations.
Very well."
He gestured toward the center of the dais.
"Then show us who you are."
The seven hybrids exchanged a single unified look—silent, instinctive, powerful.
They stepped forward together.
Namor nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Then let this council begin."
---
THE WAR TABLE
The moment Namor declared the council open, the amphitheater shifted.
Light dimmed.
The runes across the dome pulsed.
The coral pillars hummed like tuning forks.
And a vast circular platform rose from the center of the chamber, water peeling away from its surface as if compelled by invisible hands. Kelp-light holograms flickered to life—maps, energy grids, battlefield projections forming layers above the table.
This was no simple meeting room.
This was a war table.
Cable stepped forward, manipulating the interface with practiced ease. His metal arm projected stabilizing beams that shaped the shifting maps into coherent images.
"You're looking at the world as it is," Cable said.
The maps rotated, revealing the ravaged continents.
North America covered in Reaper lattice, glowing red-hot.
Europe cracked apart by assimilation trenches.
Africa pulsing with crimson scars.
Asia veined with mechanical webbing.
Australia half-submerged.
Only a few places remained dim—hidden. Shielded.
Wakanda.
Latveria.
Atlantis.
And scattered pockets where mutants still held ground.
Shade approached the projection, eyes narrowing. "The red areas… they're thicker here."
"Yes," Darwin replied, stepping beside her. "Reaper density. Hive-chains. Whatever they're building, they're building it fast."
Stryke folded his arms, gaze sharp. "What's their goal?"
"Total biological overwrite," Magneto said.
"Assimilation of any species not immune."
"Humans?" Bul asked.
"Gone," Firestar said softly. "Almost entirely."
"Mutants?" Elle asked.
Namor answered, voice low. "Immune. Which is why they hunt you instead."
Vex flinched slightly.
Alloy's fists tightened.
Surge muttered, "Cowards won't even fight fair."
Domino snorted. "Yeah, well, they don't fight. They process."
Cable zoomed the projection onto a region between Europe and Africa—the Mediterranean, now scarred with sinking cities.
"This is where we lost our last stronghold," he said. "Sinister's old clone vault. The Reapers hit it harder than anything we've seen."
"Because they sensed something," Magneto added.
"Something that threatened them."
All seven hybrids stiffened.
Shade's voice emerged quiet but certain: "Us."
Magneto's gaze met theirs.
"Correct."
A ripple of unease moved through the Atlantean council. They hadn't heard it said aloud until now.
Vex shifted closer to Elle, anxiety radiating off her like faint hex-light.
Surge cracked his knuckles. "Well, let's give them what they're afraid of."
"Don't," Stryke said sharply, not looking at him. "Anger's not strategy."
"Strategy?" Surge barked. "You got one?"
Stryke ignored the jab.
He was focused on Cable's map—on the blinking signals marking mutant cells across the world.
Elle stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding. "What resources does the Resistance have? Who's left?"
Namor stepped beside the projection, voice carrying like the current through a deep trench.
"You see before you the ones strong enough to remain," he said. "But there are others."
The hologram shifted again.
Scattered signals pulsed across the map.
— A flicker in the ruins of Moscow
— One deep in the Canadian wilderness
— A pulse from a shattered region of China
— A cluster in Central Africa
— One signal impossible to pin down: drifting, unstable
"Some are ghosts," Firestar said. "Some are refugees. Some are fighters. We've lost contact with others entirely."
Stryke leaned over the map. "Who's the drifting signal?"
"Daken," Domino said.
"Slippery bastard. Survives anything."
Darwin added, "There's also a cluster rumored around Shatterstar's old dimension gate—mutants displaced into parallel pockets."
Shade rubbed her chin. "That means the multiversal seams are weakening."
"That is… concerning," Magneto said dryly.
Cable pointed to a dim cluster far west. "Fantomex is alive. Somehow. But he's been in and out of communication for weeks."
"And Sway?" Elle asked.
"Alive," Manifold answered from behind them. "The temporal distortions near her last location prevented full assimilation."
Vex's eyes widened. "They fought so hard…"
"They're still fighting," Elixir said softly. "All of them."
The weight of the world pressed down on the dais—centuries of history, millions of deaths, a legacy carved in suffering and resistance.
Bul exhaled slowly. "So… what do you want from us?"
Magneto studied the seven hybrids with the scrutiny of a general evaluating untested weapons.
Cable's expression matched it—calculating, tactical, unflinching.
Namor stepped forward, dark eyes shining like deep-sea fire.
"What we want," Namor said,
"is to know whether you will strengthen our world…"
He paused, gaze severe.
"…or doom it."
The amphitheater chilled.
The lights dimmed.
The ocean groaned softly above the dome.
And every hybrid felt the same thing:
They were being measured.
Not by power.
Not by origin.
But by intention.
Stryke's voice finally broke the silence.
"Then measure us."
Namor and Magneto shared a long, loaded look.
And then—
Namor spoke.
"Very well. You require a name."
Stryke blinked. "A name?"
"Yes," Namor said. "For the council. For the records. For the war."
Magneto folded his arms. "What do you call yourselves?"
The question hung heavy.
The seven hybrids exchanged glances—confusion, curiosity, and something deeper. Identity. Autonomy. Purpose.
Surge smirked. "About time."
Vex swallowed, looking between her companions. "So… what are we?"
Elle looked thoughtful. Bul looked excited. Shade quietly contemplative. Alloy stoic and unreadable. Stryke calculating.
And then—
A word rose.
Quiet.
Unexpected.
Clear.
Vex said it first.
"The X-Periments."
The room stilled.
Stryke exhaled.
Elle smiled faintly.
Surge grinned.
Bul nodded.
Shade accepted.
Alloy—silent, but firm—agreed.
Magneto absorbed the name.
Namor's lips twitched—not a mockery, but approval.
"Then stand," Namor commanded.
"And be judged as such."
The war council began.
---