The gates of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters were wrought iron and ornate, nothing like the reinforced steel blast doors I'd known for fifteen years. They opened silently at our approach.
Wolverine stood just inside, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the scowl that seemed to be his default setting.
"Figured you'd show up eventually," he said.
Laura's posture shifted minutely.
"We were told to find the X-Men," I said. "We found them."
"Yeah." Wolverine's gaze flicked to me, then back to her. "Question is whether they'll keep you."
My pulse remained steady. I expected resistance. The facility wouldn't give up on us without a fight, and the X-Men wouldn't accept trained killers without debate.
"They're debating it now," Wolverine continued, turning toward the mansion. "C'mon."
We followed him up a gravel path lined with trees, towering oaks and maples with branches that filtered sunlight into patterns across the ground.
The building structure was late 19th-century architecture, brick facade, multiple wings suggesting additions over decades. Security cameras mounted at corners, too obvious to be the only measures. People moved behind windows at least a dozens of them.
There were three visible exits from this angle, likely more around back. Forest coverage was adequate for evasion if necessary.
"They know we're here," I said quietly.
Wolverine snorted. "Nothing gets past Emma's telepathy. They knew the moment you hit the property line."
Telepathy. I filed that away. Another variable and a potential threat.
He led us through carved double doors into an entrance hall, high ceilings hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps. And a chandelier that served no tactical purpose whatsoever.
It looked... lived in.
Voices echoed from a room down the hall, raised and argumentative. Wolverine stopped outside a partially open door.
"Wait here," he said, then pushed through.
The voices didn't quiet. If anything, they intensified.
Laura's jaw clenched. She'd heard it too.
I stepped closer to the door, close enough to monitor the situation.
"—absolutely not," a woman's voice, crisp and cold. "This school is not a dumping ground for broken weapons."
"They're kids, Emma." Wolverine's growl. "Same as all the others."
"Oh, please." The woman—Emma—laughed without humor. "X-23 has a confirmed kill count in the double digits. And Weapon 0's file makes her look like an amateur. These aren't confused teenagers who accidentally set the curtains on fire. These are engineered killers."
"So was I." Wolverine's voice dropped to something dangerous. "You gonna throw me out too?"
"You had decades to become something other than what they made you," Emma countered. "These two are fresh from the facility. Still bleeding from their conditioning. Do you really think they won't revert to type the moment something triggers them?"
Silence. Heavy and damning.
A different voice spoke—male, older, refined. "The question isn't what they've been, but what they might become with proper guidance."
"Charles, your optimism is admirable," Emma said. "It's also dangerous. We have children here. Vulnerable students who deserve to feel safe in their own home."
"And what about Laura and Adrian's safety?" Another voice—female, warm but firm. I didn't recognize it. "Where exactly do you propose they go? Back to the people who made them?"
"I propose," Emma said icily, "that they become someone else's problem."
Laura's breathing became heavier.
I shifted position, placing myself between her and the door. Drew her attention with minimal movement, a slight tilt of my head.
Her eyes met mine. Green and sharp and full of something I'd seen in my own reflection: the knowledge that you were only ever as valuable as your function.
"Breathe," I said quietly.
She did. Once. Twice. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally.
The argument continued.
"They didn't choose what was done to them." Wolverine again, forceful. "They were babies, for Christ's sake. You wanna punish 'em for being born into the wrong hands?"
"I want," Emma said with exaggerated patience, "to protect the students already under our care. The ones who haven't been programmed to kill on command."
"Laura was conditioned with trigger scent," the refined voice—Charles—said gently. "If we can identify and neutralize such triggers, the risk diminishes considerably."
"If," Emma repeated. "That's an enormous gamble to take with children's lives, Charles."
"It's also the entire point of this school." The warm female voice again. "We don't abandon mutants because they're difficult. We help them."
"There's difficult, Ororo, and then there's dangerous." Emma's heels clicked across hardwood. "X-23's own mother tried to save her and died for it. What makes you think we'll fare any better?"
Laura flinched, her hands curling into fists.
"The girl's got nobody," Wolverine said, rough with something that might've been emotion in someone else. "Her mom's dead. The Facility's gonna come for her eventually. She needs training. Support. A chance to be something other than a weapon."
"She needs a psychiatric institution," Emma countered. "Not a boarding school full of potential victims."
"You done?" Wolverine asked flatly.
"Are you? Because I can continue listing reasons this is—"
"They stay."
New voice. Absolute authority. The kind that ended debates through sheer force of presence.
Charles again. "They will remain here, under supervision, until we can properly assess their needs and capabilities. Emma, I understand your concerns. They are not unfounded. But turning them away would be a failure of our core mission."
"Your mission," Emma said coldly. "Not mine."
"Then consider it a personal favor." Charles's tone softened. "Please."
Silence stretched. I counted seven heartbeats before Emma spoke again.
"Fine. But the moment one of them shows signs of reverting to programming, they're gone. No debate. No second chances."
"Agreed," Charles said.
Footsteps approached the door. I stepped back, pulling Laura with me.