RORY

After a tense drive, we finally arrived in Boston at Bobby's house. The place was empty except for us, which allowed us to explore a bit. I wandered into the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. As I rummaged through the pantry, a scratching noise caught my attention. I turned around quickly and saw a cat at the door, its nose twitching as it looked up at me.

"Well, hello there," I said, smiling as I picked up the cat. It purred and started licking my hand. I grabbed a snack with one hand while holding the cat with the other.

As I made my way into the living room, I heard keys jangling, and the door opened to reveal what I assumed to be Bobby's parents and his brother.

"Who the hell are you?" Bobby's dad demanded, eyeing us warily.

Bobby's mom came forward and gently took the cat from my arms. "Uh, Bobby?" she asked, confusion evident in her voice. "Aren't you supposed to be at school? Who are these people?"

"This is Professor Logan and some of his students," Bobby explained, trying to keep his tone steady. "We need to talk."

We all settled into the living room as Bobby began explaining our situation. John fidgeted with his lighter, clearly uncomfortable.

"So, when did you first realize you were a—" Bobby's mom started to ask.

"A mutant?" John interjected, cutting her off.

"Yes, exactly," she said, clearly exasperated. "Now, could you please stop playing with that thing?"

John quickly pocketed his lighter.

"You have to understand, we thought Bobby was going to a school for the gifted," Bobby's dad said, trying to grasp the situation.

"Bobby is gifted, as are all of us," I added, trying to offer some reassurance.

"It's this mutant problem that's causing the issue," Bobby's mom began to explain.

"What mutant problem?" Logan asked, a note of impatience in his voice.

"What exactly are you a professor of, Mr. Logan?" Bobby's dad asked, a skeptical edge to his tone.

"Art," Logan replied, his answer delivered with a shrug that didn't quite mask his annoyance.

As the conversation continued, I noticed Bobby's brother, Ronnie, sitting off to the side, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed downward. His discomfort was palpable, and it was clear he was struggling to process everything happening around him.

After Bobby froze the tea in his mom's teacup, the room fell silent, save for the soft clink as she set the cup down, her eyes wide with shock. The cat, unaware of the tension, casually licked at the frozen tea, adding an odd note of normalcy to the situation. Ronnie, clearly unsettled, abruptly stood up and left the room without a word.

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Rory glanced out the window, her heart pounding as she saw soldiers armed to the teeth surrounding the grounds. Panic surged through her. She quickly turned, grabbing Rogue and Bobby by their arms, her voice urgent and filled with fear. "We've got to go, now!"

Logan, sensing the gravity of the situation, followed closely behind. Rogue, bewildered by the sudden rush, looked between them. "Rory, Logan, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

But there was no time to explain. They burst out of the house, only to be met by a wall of police officers, guns trained on them. One officer, in particular, zeroed in on Logan, his voice commanding and unyielding. "Drop the knives and put your hands in the air."

Logan, still disoriented by the unfolding chaos, mumbled, "What's going on here?"

"Ronnie," Bobby muttered under his breath, piecing it together. Ronnie had called the police.

"This is just a misunderstanding—" Logan began, trying to defuse the situation.

"Drop the knives!" the officer shouted again, his grip tightening on the trigger.

"I can't," Logan said, his voice firm as he pushed his claws outward. "Look."

The moment the metal claws extended, the officer fired, a bullet striking Logan in the head. Rogue screamed, the sound tearing through the air.

The officers, fueled by fear and adrenaline, yelled at the rest of the group to get down. Everyone complied, dropping to their knees, except for John. Rory, desperate, tugged on his pant leg, pleading with him to get down, but he kicked her aside, his face set in a grim determination.

"We don't wanna hurt you, kid," a policewoman called out, trying to reason with him.

John flicked open his lighter, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You know all those mutant attacks you hear on the news?" he said, his voice calm, almost cold. "I'm the worst one."

With that, he ignited the flames, erupting chaos once more.

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We hurried onto the jet, our nerves frayed and adrenaline still pumping from the chaos we'd just escaped. As we entered, I immediately noticed a figure that stood out—a man with striking blue skin, a tail swishing behind him, and intricate engravings carved into his skin. His presence was both strange and oddly calming amidst the turmoil.

Storm and Jean were already in position, bringing the jet back up to speed. The blue-skinned man turned to us with a polite nod. "Guten tag," he greeted, his voice thick with a German accent.

Logan eyed him warily. "Who the hell is this?"

"Kurt Wagner," the man replied smoothly. "But in the Munich circus, I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler."

"Save it," Logan shot back, clearly in no mood for introductions.

As we settled into the jet, trying to regain some sense of control, the tension in the air remained thick. We were on our way back to the mansion when suddenly, two jets appeared behind us, their ominous presence unmistakable. A stern voice crackled through the speakers, ordering us to stop.

The jets began to fall back slightly, but it became clear they had no intention of letting us go. My heart raced as I saw them prepare to fire. We all braced ourselves, and Storm and Jean quickly pushed the jet to its limits, picking up speed. Storm, her face set in concentration, conjured powerful tornadoes in an attempt to throw the enemy jets off course. It worked—at least for a moment.

But then, out of nowhere, another jet appeared, closing in on us with terrifying speed. Before anyone could react, it fired a missile that struck the back of our jet, the explosion ripping through the metal with a thunderous roar. The blast was so powerful that it tore a massive hole in the jet, sending debris and a deafening windstorm through the cabin.

Amid the chaos, Rogue was yanked from her seat by the sudden rush of air, her body flung toward the gaping hole.

"Rouge!" I screamed, my heart seizing with terror. "Somebody get her!"

In an instant, Kurt—Nightcrawler—vanished in a puff of smoke, only to reappear moments later with Rogue clutched in his arms. Relief flooded through me as I rushed forward to grab her, pulling her into a tight embrace. My heart was pounding, and I held her close, unable to let go.

But the danger wasn't over. Alarms blared throughout the jet, signaling an impending blast. We were on the brink of disaster, the jet plummeting out of control. Just as it seemed all hope was lost, the jet suddenly stopped, caught by an unseen force. We were gently lowered to the ground, the landing rough but not fatal.

I looked up, breathless, to see Magneto standing outside, his hand raised, the metallic wreckage around us bending to his will. He explained with a cold precision that the soldiers who had invaded the mansion were after Cerebro, intending to create a version of their own, and that Stryker had taken the Professor. 

It was clear we couldn't proceed further that night. Exhausted and rattled, we decided to set up camp and wait until morning to launch our rescue mission. As we pitched tents and tried to get some rest, the night seemed endlessly long, the weight of what lay ahead pressing heavily on all of us. The morning would bring new challenges, and we had to be ready to face them.