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Charles’s voice echoed in their minds, calm but urgent. Logan, Scott, Jean. My office. Now.
Logan was already scowling when he shoved the door open. One look at Scott standing ramrod straight beside Jean made his lip curl. Any mission with Boy Scout was guaranteed to be a lecture on protocol wrapped in red optic blasts. Logan did not do rules.
“So what is the urgent matter, Chuck?” he growled. He lit a cigar as he dropped into a chair.
Charles steepled his fingers, his expression soft with concern. “There is a young mutant in New Orleans whose powers have spiraled far beyond their control. The locals have given the child a name. Diablo Noir. The Black Devil. They fear this mutant, and with good reason.”
He paused, eyes grave. “I need the three of you to bring them home. But be careful. This child is extraordinary.”
Logan snorted as he pushed himself up from the chair. “The kid cannot be that bad. I was worse.”
His heavy boots thudded loudly against the ramp of the Blackbird as he boarded. Nothing in his long, violent life could have prepared him for the storm he was about to meet in young Ren LeBeau.
The Blackbird cut through the night sky toward the Louisiana bayou. Cerebro had pinpointed the mutant hiding in an old, isolated cabin deep in the swamps. According to the intel Jean had gathered from the locals, no one dared go near the place. They were too terrified of losing their minds to the illusions that surrounded it.
Stories varied wildly. Some spoke of dead loved ones crawling from the water. Others told of their worst sins made flesh. But everyone agreed on one thing: the deep, bone-chilling fear that Diablo Noir left behind.
Under Scott’s strict instructions, their approach to the cabin was cautious. The mutant they sought was casually perched on the cabin’s porch railing, shuffling a deck of gold-plated playing cards.
“I would be careful about getting too close, mon ami. I am the devil, or have you not heard?” Ren’s voice carried the same heavy Cajun accent as Gambit’s. They ran a hand through their long red hair, which was matted and tangled.
Ren’s fingers never stopped shuffling the gold-plated cards. Even in the dim bayou light, the deck gleamed. Their eyes flicked over the three X-Men with a mix of defiance and exhaustion.
Scott raised his hands slowly. “We are not here to hurt you. My name is Scott Summers. This is Jean Grey and Logan. Professor Charles Xavier sent us. He wants to help you control your powers.”
Ren let out a short, bitter laugh. “Control? Cher, you do not know what you are askin'. The last people who tried to control me left their mark.” Their left hand tightened around the deck. “I suggest you turn around before I show you what real fear looks like.”
Jean stepped forward gently, projecting calm. “We know about the illusions. We know you have been through something terrible. You do not have to do this alone anymore.”
For a moment Ren’s expression flickered. Something vulnerable flashed across their face. Then their eyes hardened. The air grew thick and heavy.
The illusions crashed over the team without warning.
Jean gasped as flames roared around her. The psychic echo of screams filled her mind. Scott stumbled back. Visions of fallen teammates and a world destroyed by his own failure clawed at him. Logan’s claws slid out with a metallic snikt as memories of what he had done during his X-Force days and burning flesh flooded his senses. Even worse, he saw flashes of a branding iron pressing into skin. The image bled with Ren’s own fear, twisting into Logan’s personal nightmare.
Ren stood up on the railing. Their voice shook even as they tried to sound fierce. “See? I am not worth saving. Just go!”
Logan snarled through the pain. The branding iron vision burned hotter than the rest, but something in it felt foreign. It was not his memory. The fear leaking into it was younger, sharper, and full of betrayal. He forced one foot forward, then another. With every step closer to the terrified teen, more of Ren’s own panic flooded the illusion.
White-coated labs. Restraints. A man with cold eyes preaching about divine purpose while a red-hot iron seared Roman numeral XIV into the soft skin of a boy’s inner left wrist. Screams that belonged to Ren. Years of experimentation by William Stryker, needles, tests, and forced loss of control until the boy’s mutation exploded into uncontrollable fear projections.
Logan broke through the nightmare with a roar. His claws retracted as he lunged the last few steps and grabbed Ren by the shoulders. “Kid! Snap out of it! We are not here to brand you or cage you!”
The illusions shattered. Ren’s eyes widened in shock, then rolled back as their body went limp. Projecting at full strength for so long had drained them completely. They collapsed forward into Logan’s arms, long red hair spilling over his shoulder like a younger, haunted echo of Gambit.
The flight back was tense. Ren remained unconscious the entire way, but the silence in the Blackbird did not last long.
“You sure you have never seen the kid before, Logan?” Scott asked, his voice sharp. “Because it is hard to believe that after what we all just saw. The same man who molded adamantium to your skeleton kept Ren locked up for years.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. He kept one hand resting protectively on Ren’s shoulder. “You think I would forget a kid with a brand like that? Stryker had a lot of victims, Summers. Too many. I sure as hell did not know about this one.”
Scott exhaled, the anger in his tone softening into something closer to exhaustion. “I am not accusing you. I am just… angry for the kid. No one should have to grow up like that.”
Jean stayed quiet in the pilot seat, but her expression mirrored the same heavy sorrow. Whatever came next, Ren LeBeau was no longer facing it alone.
When the Blackbird landed, Hank McCoy was already waiting in the med bay. The blue-furred genius moved with efficient calm, helping Logan lay Ren on the examination table. He gently turned over Ren’s left wrist and examined the branded Roman numeral XIV with a grim expression.
“William Stryker’s work. The scarring is several years old, but the tissue around it shows repeated trauma,” Hank said quietly. “This child has endured horrors no one should face.”
The moment Hank went to put in the IV needle Ren's hand shot up gripping Hank's wrist as their eyes glowed faintly projecting horrors into Hank's mind.
The moment Hank moved to insert the IV needle, Ren’s hand shot up and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. Their eyes fluttered open and glowed faintly. Horrors slammed into Hank’s mind: blinding white labs, screaming children, the sickening smell of burning flesh, and the relentless press of a red-hot brand. Hank froze, his fur bristling as the projected terror washed over him.
Hank stiffened for a brief second, but fascination quickly replaced any discomfort. His eyes brightened with scientific curiosity even as the illusions pressed against him. “Remarkable,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The neural feedback is instantaneous and highly personalized. The synaptic response… yes, I see. If we can map this projection mechanism, we may be able to build safeguards or even redirect the energy. Please, young one, let me help you. This is not mere fear. This is a sophisticated neurological weapon. We can learn to control it together.”
Ren’s grip loosened as the words and Hank’s steady, unafraid demeanor cut through their panic. They drifted back into exhausted sleep, but the seed of trust had been planted.
Over the following weeks, Ren’s recovery was slow and uneven. Trust issues ran deep after years of Stryker’s experiments. Nightmares still triggered uncontrolled illusions, but the team refused to give up. Jean helped shield their mind and slowly became like an older sister to Ren, offering gentle patience on the hardest days. Logan provided gruff but steady presence during training sessions, understanding the anger that came with trauma. Scott tried to provide structure, though Ren, much like Logan, was not inclined to follow instructions to the letter and often pushed back with Cajun defiance.
Charles spoke often about choice and control. Ren feared him for a long while, associating any authority figure with Stryker, but slowly began to treat Charles like a father. Hank, true to his word, worked closely with Ren, running gentle tests and sharing theories with visible excitement. His fascination with the mutation’s mechanics made Ren feel seen as something more than a weapon or victim.
The turning point came when Remy LeBeau arrived at the mansion. The family reunion between the half-brothers was raw and emotional. Remy took one look at the long red hair and familiar features and pulled Ren into a tight embrace.
“I did not know about you, petit frère,” Remy said, voice thick with guilt. “But I am here now. We face this together.”
With Remy and Charles guiding them, Ren learned to channel their chaotic fear projection into their gold-plated playing cards. They practiced charging the cards with kinetic force, turning raw terror into focused power. Training was difficult and filled with setbacks, but each small success built confidence and control. The brand marked as Roman numeral XIV on their inner left wrist remained a permanent scar, yet it no longer defined them.
Healing grew in quiet moments. Jean’s sisterly encouragement. Logan’s wordless understanding. Scott’s reluctant respect for Ren’s stubbornness. Charles’s patient wisdom. Hank’s enthusiastic scientific support. And Remy’s constant presence as the brother Ren never knew they needed.
One evening months later, Ren stood on the mansion grounds at sunset. A single charged card glowed steadily between their fingers. No fear leaked outward. Only controlled power shaped by choice.
Remy grinned beside them. “Not bad, petit diable. Not bad at all.”
Ren smiled, small but real. The long journey from experimentation, branding, and loss of control had led to healing, trust, and family. For the first time, they truly felt they belonged.