The scene was almost comical in its absurdity. Callisto—fierce leader of the Morlocks, a woman whose enhanced reflexes and combat skills had kept her people alive through countless raids—lay sprawled on the damp sewer floor, knocked out cold by a single, crisp slap from a butler who looked like he belonged in a royal tea parlor rather than a mutant hideout.
Sunders, the hulking brute of the Morlocks with strength that could bend steel, had fared no better. One moment he was charging forward with a roar, the next he was face-down next to Callisto, snoring softly.
The remaining Morlocks stood frozen, their mutated faces a mixture of shock and reluctant awe.
"Well," Kwannon drawled, twirling a lock of violet hair around her finger. "That was anticlimactic… Two slaps and it's over."*
Forge adjusted the camera on his shoulder, the red recording light blinking steadily. "Better than bloodshed… Wraith—er, Prince Sai—wanted this documented anyway. Said it might make for a good documentary someday."
The Morlocks' reactions were torn between elation and deep-seated fear. The promise of a new life—of normalcy—was intoxicating. But they had been burned before by pretty words and false saviors. Their scars ran deeper than flesh.
Yet the law of the tunnels was absolute: strength ruled. Sebastian had defeated their champions with insulting ease. By their own code, leadership now passed to Prince Sai's representative.
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When Callisto came to, her cheek throbbing, she found herself on a bus. Not the rusted, reeking transports they sometimes stole for supply runs, but a proper coach with cushioned seats and air conditioning. Through the window, the New York skyline blurred past—a world she hadn't walked in years.
Three buses in total carried the Morlocks, their meager possessions limited to the tattered clothes on their backs. No one had much to bring; survival left little room for sentimentalities.
Sunders groaned awake beside her, rubbing his jaw. "The hell hit me?"
"A butler," Callisto muttered. "A damn butler."
The Warehouse loomed ahead, an unassuming building that hid unimaginable resources. As the buses rolled through secured gates, the Morlocks pressed their faces to the windows, their breath fogging the glass.
Callisto was the first off, marching up to Sebastian as he oversaw the disembarking.
"I hope you've recovered from our... discussion," Sebastian said, not a hair out of place.
Callisto's jaw tightened. "I lost. My people's fate is in your hands now." There was no bitterness in her voice—just the weight of responsibility. These were her people. Her family. If this went south, she'd die fighting for them.
Sebastian's gaze softened imperceptibly. "They are 'our' people now. And we protect what's ours."
The second basement of The Warehouse had been transformed. Rows of clean, private rooms lined the halls, each equipped with real beds, fresh linens, and—most miraculous of all—private bathrooms.
For mutants who had slept on concrete and washed in filthy puddles, it was overwhelming.
Leech, his scaly hands trembling, turned the shower knob and yelped when hot water actually came out. Marrow stared at the fluffy towel like it might bite her.
Callisto lingered under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat scald away years of grime and tension. The soap smelled like lavender—lavender, for God's sake—not the harsh lye scraps they'd scavenged from dumpsters.
Wrapped in a robe softer than anything she'd touched in decades; she examined her reflection. The scars remained, but for the first time in years, she looked... clean.
A knock at the door.
"Dinner is served in the communal hall," a Shadow Soldier intoned.
The dining hall buzzed with an energy it hadn't seen in years—laughter, clattering cutlery, and the occasional squeak of sneakers on polished floors. The Morlocks, who had spent years surviving on scraps in the sewers, now sat at proper tables with plates piled high with food. The scent of freshly baked pizza, garlic bread, and roasted meats filled the air, making stomachs growl in anticipation.
"Mom! They got pizza here!" Marrow's voice rang out across the hall, her bone protrusions quivering with excitement as she waved a slice dripping with cheese.
Callisto couldn't help but smirk at her adopted daughter's enthusiasm, though her sharp eyes never stopped scanning the room. "Is everyone accounted for?" she asked, tearing into a buttery roll.
Caliban, hunched over a plate of creamy fettuccine, nodded. "Yeah, Callisto. They brought us all here in those fancy buses. No one left behind."
"Nothing shady yet?" Callisto pressed, her fingers drumming against the table.
Marrow, mouth full of pepperoni, shook her head. "Nope. Just rooms, clothes, and this." She gestured at the buffet spread like it was a miracle.
Callisto exhaled slowly, though her shoulders remained tense. "Just stay vigilant. We don't know what's coming next."
The moment the words left her lips, the dining hall doors swung open.
Sebastian Wilfred strode in, impeccable as ever, his golden monocle catching the overhead lights. The chatter died instantly—forks froze mid-air, and even Marrow stopped chewing.
With a dismissive wave, Sebastian smiled. "Please, carry on. Don't let me interrupt your meal."
The Morlocks hesitated for only a second before the feast resumed, though now with hushed murmurs and sideways glances.
Sebastian approached Callisto's table, his polished shoes clicking against the tile. "There you are, Miss Callisto. I've come to discuss arrangements."
Callisto wiped her mouth with a napkin, leaning back in her chair. "What is it, sir?" Her tone was just respectful enough to not be outright insubordinate, but the sarcasm lingered like a bad aftertaste.
Sebastian's smile didn't waver, but his gaze sharpened. He placed a sleek folder in front of her. "Here is the schedule for the next few days. You'll have three days to recuperate—eat, sleep, regain your strength. Medical attention will be provided for those who need it."
Callisto flipped through the documents, scanning the neatly organized itineraries, meal plans, and even therapy sessions. It was… thorough.
"Also," Sebastian added, his voice lowering just enough to send a chill down her spine, "correct the attitude. Any sarcasm—or worse, an attempt to harm His Highness—will not be tolerated."
Callisto met his gaze. The warning in his eyes wasn't just a threat—it was a promise. She swallowed, nodding sharply. "Alright. Understood."*
She wasn't stupid. She had survived this long by knowing when to push and when to yield. And right now? Sebastian's patience was a thin line she wasn't willing to cross.
Sebastian's expression softened slightly. "Good." Then, without another word, he turned toward the large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. With a click of a remote, the screen flickered to life.
"And if you were wondering who our prince is…"
The image of a strikingly handsome man filled the screen—golden-brown hair, piercing eyes, and a regal bearing that commanded attention. The Morlocks gasped, forks clattering onto plates as they stared, transfixed.
Prince Sai Von Morvayne's voice boomed through the speakers
"[My people have suffered for so long. And just like them, I too was hunted by the Genoshan government. My parents fled; my grandparents were assassinated… The only reason I still stand here today is because they gave me away to survive.]"
The passion in his voice was magnetic. The Morlocks leaned forward, some with tears in their eyes, others with fists clenched.
"[But now? Now I have the strength to fight for what is rightfully mine—for our people, who have suffered for too long!]" His fist, slammed down on the podium. "[And this fight? I will win!]"
The dining hall erupted in cheers. Marrow jumped onto the table, howling. Caliban pounded his fists against the wood. Even Callisto felt her chest tighten with something she hadn't felt in years—hope.
Sebastian watched them all, a satisfied gleam in his eye.
"Welcome," he murmured, "to the beginning of your new lives."