Charles withdrew at once.
The cosmic ocean which turned into a sea of lightning faded, the crackling shadow dissolved, and the suffocating vastness of Billy's mind receded just enough to let him breathe again.
The connection had abruptly receded, his consciousness pulling back through layers of thought and perception until the vast psychic landscape collapsed inward, replaced once more by the quiet hum of Cerebro's chamber.
Gradually, he composed himself, his control reasserting itself in careful increments.
His eyes opened slowly beneath the helmet.
Outwardly, nothing had changed. His expression remained calm, composed, his posture steady as ever.
But behind his eyes—
There was a depth now.
A shift.
Because whatever resided within that boy…
…was far beyond anything he had encountered before.
"…Fascinating," he murmured, the word slipping past his lips in a breath so faint it almost dissolved into the silence around him. His attention drifted, slowly and thoughtfully, from the formless shadow with its shape unstable, writhing, veins of yellow-gold lightning cracking and crawling across its surface like a living storm intertwined with Billy. And down toward the vast ocean stretching beneath it.
At first when the ocean was presented as water, the water still was wrong.
Not in the way of storms or tides, but in something far more unsettling. Each ripple across its surface didn't merely reflect the sky above—it became it. The dark expanse shimmered with starlight, mirroring the heavens so perfectly that the boundary between sea and sky blurred into nothingness. It created the disorienting illusion that the boy stood suspended in the middle of the cosmos itself, as though gravity had lost its claim and reality had quietly stepped aside to let something mysterious take its place.
Then his thoughts flashed to the sudden change of the ocean turning into a sea of lightning.
'Is this…?' The words that had come to mind at the time, as Xavier thought on the impossible landscape with whetted focus. He had seen all sorts of minds—fractured ones, brilliant ones, even dangerous ones—but this… this defied the structure he understood.
'An Omega-level mutant would have the potential of their abilities reflected as something with quite some depth, something symbolic… a lagoon, a lake even. But in Billy's case…'
The thought never reached completion.
A sudden tremor ran through him, acute and jarring, as though his consciousness had been violently shaken within its own frame. His breath hitched, and a thin trail of crimson slipped from beneath his nose, cutting a stark line against his skin.
The pain came not as a single spike, but as a crushing pressure—an overwhelming feedback that clawed at his mind from every direction. It was the cost of pushing Cerebro beyond its comfortable limits, of forcing his way into a psyche that did not welcome intrusion, and did not yield to prolonged observation.
The team gave him time to recollect himself, clean and stop his bleeding nose as he regained his composure. He was lucky he had retreated in a timely fashion or else the feedback would have been much stronger than he experienced.
It took everything Xavier had just to hold his position at the threshold of the boy's deeper consciousness. Even that fleeting contact felt like standing at the edge of something immeasurable, something that pressed back simply by existing. Maintaining that foothold for as long as he did, demanded more effort than most full psychic dives he had performed in years.
Logan who stood nearby with his arms crossed, and his posture rigid with impatience. His sharp gaze was locked onto Xavier, already searching for answers before they were given.
"So…?" Logan finally broke the silence, his voice was edged with irritation. "Is the kid a mutant, or do we need to start calling in priests for an exorcism? Cus' possession would be the case then."
Xavier exhaled slowly, the remnants of strain still visible in the slight tension around his eyes. There was a pause which wasn't due to uncertainty, but from the weight of what he was about to say.
"Definitely not a mutant," he replied at last, his voice steady, though quieter than usual. "There are no traces of mutation in his genetic structure."
Jean Grey stepped forward slightly, her expression tightening as confusion and curiosity flickered across her features. "Then what is he?" she asked with a measured tone, but was edged with unease.
Xavier didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted, unfocused for a moment, as if part of him was still floating above that impossible sea of lightning, staring into something he could not categorize. When he finally spoke, there was something new beneath his usual composure—something rare.
"Something else entirely."
The words were calm, but the pause that followed carried a subtle tension that didn't go unnoticed. It lingered in the air, pressing against the others, stirring a quiet sense of alarm.
Whatever Billy was…
He wasn't something Charles Xavier could neatly define.
And in a world where he had dedicated his life to understanding the extraordinary—to categorizing it, guiding it, controlling it—that uncertainty was not only unusual. But was deeply, and profoundly unsettling.
"At least tell me something turned up from this," Storm said, her voice came out calm but carried a firm undercurrent as it came through the low mechanical hum of the chamber. Her arms rested loosely at her sides, but there was a subtle tension in her posture, a quiet disapproval lingering beneath her composure. "Considering you chose to overlook your own moral code just to learn more about the boy… and whatever that power of his is."
The room seemed to settle into a heavier silence after that, one that pressed gently against the ears.
Charles Xavier guided his chair back with a smooth motion as the others instinctively stepped aside, clearing a path toward the exit.
The faint whir of its movement echoed softly against the metallic walls as he turned away from Cerebro, the massive machine now quiet behind them, its earlier intensity reduced to a dormant presence. There was a slight pause before he answered, as though weighing the words carefully against the weight of expectation in the room.
"Unfortunately… I got nothing," he said at last, his tone even, though more placid than usual. "The boy possesses a mind unlike any I have encountered. It is… structured in such a way that it resists intrusion. Not consciously, but by nature. It is not a mind one can trespass."
The answer didn't land well. It wasn't just the lack of information—it was who it came from.
For someone like Xavier to admit that… meant something.
The group moved together into the corridor, the heavy doors sliding open with a muted hiss before sealing shut behind them. The lighting shifted to a softer glow, lining the walls of the lower levels with a sterile, almost clinical warmth. Their footsteps—boots, heels, the subtle roll of Xavier's chair—echoed faintly as they advanced, the tension following them like a quiet shadow.
"I did sense something," Xavier continued, his voice drawing their attention back to him. His gaze lowered slightly, unfocused as he replayed the experience in his mind. "Two distinct states of awareness coexisting within him. The boy you see—Billy—and… something else."
"Another personality?" Scott Summers interjected, his brow furrowing as he walked just behind Xavier, arms loosely folded as his mind worked through the implications.
Xavier gave a faint shake of his head, the motion subtle but decisive. "No. There was no division, no fragmentation. Nothing that suggested instability or dissociation." His expression darkened slightly, with the weight of something he could not neatly define. "If anything… it felt unified. As though the second presence was not separate from him, but an extension."
They stepped fully into the corridor now, the space opening slightly as intersecting hallways stretched off into different wings of the facility. Xavier's voice lowered, but came out deliberate as he chose his next word.
"Empowered."
The word lingered.
It settled over them in a way that demanded consideration, each of them processing it differently. Logan, though appearing detached as he leaned slightly forward in his stride, gave no outward reaction. Yet the subtle tightening of his jaw and the stillness in his shoulders betrayed that he had heard every word, filed it away with quiet precision.
Jean Grey walked a step behind, her gaze distant, her thoughts turning inward. There was a subtle flicker of unease in her expression, as she replayed what she had witnessed earlier. A boy—young, far too young—wielding power on a scale that should have overwhelmed him, consumed him even. And yet… it hadn't.
"He could have seriously harmed that student," she said finally, her voice softer now, laced with the weight of that realization.
"Yes," Xavier replied as the group came to a gradual halt within the corridor, the stillness amplifying the gravity of the conversation.
Storm's eyes shifted toward him, sharp and searching. "But he chose not to," she said, her tone measured, as though testing the certainty of that conclusion.
"…Also yes," Xavier confirmed, meeting her gaze without hesitation.
That answer seemed to settle something within her, if only partially. The tension in her shoulders eased just enough to notice, her breath leaving her in a slow, controlled exhale.
Beside the wall, Hank McCoy stood near Logan, his posture thoughtful, one hand resting lightly against his chin as his intellect wrestled with the unknown variables. Logan himself had come to a stop, arms now crossed firmly over his chest as he leaned back against the wall, his presence solid and grounded, eyes half-lidded but attentive.
"Then what is he?" Hank asked, his voice calm but edged with genuine curiosity.
Xavier leaned back slightly in his chair, the soft creak barely audible as he tilted his head, considering the question not as a scientist—but as a teacher.
"A young man," he began with a measured tone, "carrying something far beyond what he should reasonably be able to bear."
Storm studied him for a moment longer before speaking again, her voice sounding more placid now, but no less deliberate. "And you trust him?"
Xavier's expression remained unchanged, calm and resolute, though there was a subtle softness beneath it now—something reflective, almost hopeful.
"I trust what he chose to do today."
A brief silence followed as the words hung between them, simple, but carried weight to some extent—stretching just long enough to settle into something understood rather than spoken.
"That is enough… for now."
There was no immediate argument. No pushback. Just a slow, collective acceptance, visible in the slight nods that passed between them. Storm's gaze lingered a moment longer, that quiet spark of curiosity still alive in her eyes, but tempered.
Xavier allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch his lips as he turned his chair slightly, preparing to move again.
"For now," he said softly, "we observe."
There was a small pause before he added, his voice dipping just enough to emphasize the intent behind it—
"Discreetly."
- - -
That evening, while Billy was completely absorbed in a sprawling catalogue of video games Tony and Clint had dumped on him—each louder, flashier, and more chaotic than the last—the rest of the Avengers had claimed the upper lounge for themselves.
The atmosphere there leaned into something far more relaxed; low lighting cast warm amber hues across polished floors and leather furniture, glasses clinked softly against one another, and the faint hum of the city beyond the glass walls bled into the background like distant white noise. It was one of those rare, quiet pockets of time where no one was actively saving the world—just unwinding, talking, existing.
"He did what!?" Tony's voice came through that calm with disbelief and just a hint of incredulous amusement. He hadn't even set his drink down before reacting, the glass still hovering loosely in his hand as he took a measured sip, as though the alcohol might help him process what he'd just heard.
His brows lifted, eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the glass as he looked toward Bruce, silently demanding clarification—or maybe just hoping he'd misheard.
"You let him use his powers out in the open without concealing his identity?" Steve followed almost immediately, his tone far less amused and far more grounded in concern. There was a firmness to it, one that came from habit—years of command, of responsibility, of knowing exactly how dangerous exposure like that could be.
His posture straightened slightly where he sat, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on Bruce with some intensity. Unlike the others, Steve had no frame of reference for Xavier's school as a controlled environment; to him, it simply sounded like a child with immense power had been allowed to act freely in public, and that didn't sit right.
"I didn't," Bruce replied, the defense coming calmly, though not without a subtle undercurrent of tension. He leaned back slightly into his seat, rolling the glass in his hand before taking a slow sip, the ice inside clicking faintly against the sides—a soft, rhythmic sound that contrasted the rising tension in the room.
"He just… wandered off. Decided to explore the place on his own. Next thing I know, while I'm buried in research, I start hearing about some kind of commotion at the school." His expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of something else there—frustration, maybe, or the lingering weight of hindsight.
Steve's gaze didn't waver with furrowed brows even as his concern settled deeper. "He must've been gone for a while," he said, his voice lowering slightly, but losing none of its edge. There was a quiet disbelief woven into it now, like he was trying to reconcile Bruce's explanation with what he believed should've happened. "And you didn't think to check on him?" The question landed less like an accusation and more like something a worried parent would ask—a steady, probing kind of disappointment, wrapped in genuine concern rather than outright blame.
"Bruce was clearly buried in his science rabbit hole—no chance he was keeping tabs on Billy." Clint's voice drifted lazily into the conversation, his body sprawled across the sofa like gravity had claimed him hours ago and he'd simply decided not to argue. One arm hung loosely over the edge, the other cradling his drink with the kind of casual familiarity that came from long habits.
There was no urgency in him, no strain or unease like the others carried—only a calm, faintly amused detachment, as if the situation was merely something to idly consider, not something that demanded concern.
"Easy, Steve. Let the lad breathe a little." Thor brushed the tension aside like it was nothing more than passing smoke, his deep voice rolling out with an effortless confidence that settled over the room.
He raised the bottle without a second thought, taking a long, unrestrained pull before lowering it again with a satisfied exhale, wholly unfazed by the concern woven through the others. To him, it was all straightforward—conflict wasn't something to shy away from, but something to meet head-on, a natural forge for growth.
"Can't believe I'm saying this, but Sparkles over here has a point." Tony added, lifting his glass slightly as he gestured toward Thor, the nickname slipping out with an effortless familiarity. There was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, a blend of irony and reluctant agreement that made it clear he wasn't entirely thrilled to be siding with the Asgardian, but he wasn't wrong either.
"What?" The reaction came almost instantly, Steve's voice overlapping faintly with the others as they turned toward Tony in near unison. There was a shared disbelief in the room, it was faint but unmistakable, as if they were all momentarily thrown off by Tony taking that side of the argument.
"The kid needs a social life," Tony replied simply, already reaching for the bottle again as though the statement required no further elaboration. The soft glug of liquid filling his glass punctuated his words, his tone casual but firm, like he'd already settled the matter in his head. There was something almost pragmatic in the way he said it—Billy wasn't just some fragile kid to be monitored constantly; he was someone who needed space to experience things, even if those experiences came with a bit of chaos.
"What I don't get is why he'd end up in a fight on his first visit to a school for gifted kids." Natasha voiced her thoughts.
She leaned slightly forward where she sat, fingers loosely wrapped around her glass, her expression thoughtful as she tried to figure out why Billy would get into a fight at a place he should have probably fit in.
"Then imagine if he actually enrolls there," Clint added, the corner of his mouth twitching as he delivered the line, unable to fully suppress the humor creeping into his tone.
He bit it back almost immediately when he caught the look Natasha shot at him—a flat, unimpressed stare that made it very clear she wasn't sharing in the joke. The moment hung for a beat, Clint raising his hands slightly in silent surrender, though the hint of amusement never quite left his face.
From everything they'd seen of Billy so far, the idea of him starting a fight didn't quite add up. He wasn't aggressive, not in the way that would push him into conflict for no reason. The story he'd given Bruce—about stepping in because of a bully—fit far better with what they knew of him. It was instinct to shield rather than incite, which made the situation easier to grasp—even if it did nothing to ease the underlying concern.
"He is a warrior—one who stands for the weak and finds joy in the thrill of battle. Such a one would never retreat when challenged." Thor spoke again, but this time there was a deeper weight to his words, his tone carrying the unmistakable pride of someone who recognized a kindred spirit.
His posture straightened slightly, his gaze distant for a moment as if recalling battles long past, and there was a faint smile there, not of amusement, but of respect. To Thor, Billy's actions weren't surprising at all; they were simply the mark of someone who had already begun to walk the path of a guardian.
Having been seated among them the entire time, quietly nursing his drink as the conversation unfolded around him, James Rhodes wore an expression that stood out in stark contrast to everyone else's.
Where the others spoke with familiarity, throwing around Billy's name, his actions, his personality as though it were common knowledge—Rhodey's face told a different story.
His brows were slightly drawn together, his gaze shifting from one speaker to the next, trying to piece together context from fragments that clearly weren't enough. The confusion sat plainly on his features, a clear admission that he was completely out of the loop.
"And who exactly is this kid again?" he finally asked, his voice cutting in at just the right moment, calm but edged with genuine curiosity. James Rhodes, better known in the field as War Machine—wasn't someone easily rattled or left behind in a conversation, but this? This felt like he'd walked into the middle of a briefing halfway through and been expected to keep up without context.
As one of the few people Tony trusted enough to don Stark armor—a level of trust that carried serious weight, especially considering Rhodey's ties to the military—he was used to being in the know. Which made this whole situation stand out even more.
He leaned back slightly into his seat, glass still in hand, the faint clink of ice marking the small shift as he adjusted his grip. His posture remained relaxed, but his attention was anything but, eyes settling expectantly on the group as he waited for someone—anyone—to fill in the missing pieces.
He'd only just stopped by recently, having been off-grid for most of the previous week, and nowhere in that time had he heard anything about the team suddenly taking in a kid. Yet here they were, speaking about Billy like he'd always been part of the equation, leaving Rhodey caught somewhere between curiosity and mild disbelief as he waited for the explanation he was clearly owed.