Chapter 248 – The Ashes of the Phoenix
The night after Malice fell was a long one. The mansion smelled of smoke, solder, and antiseptic — the scents of survival. By dawn, even the wind sounded tired.
Storm stood by the window of the briefing room, watching sunlight crawl reluctantly across the lawn. Her reflection in the glass looked older than she felt: a warrior's face stripped of divinity. No lightning, no thunder. Only the weight of leadership.
Behind her, the X-Men gathered — Logan, Rogue, Nightcrawler, Colossus, Psylocke, Kitty, Rachel, and the newly rejoined Dazzler. The silence between them was heavy, respectful. The baby slept in Rachel's arms again, the tiny, oblivious heartbeat that reminded them why they fought.
Storm turned to face her team. "We must evacuate."
No preamble. Just the truth.
Rogue frowned. "Evacuate? But the worst's behind us, ain't it?"
"I wish that were true," Storm said softly. "But the Marauders know this place. They've attacked us here before, and they will again. The Morlocks we've taken in are injured — some beyond my care. We cannot risk another assault on our home."
Kitty nodded grimly. "She's right. We're sitting ducks if they hit again. The med bay's already full."
Colossus crossed his arms. "Then where do we go, Ororo?"
Storm's expression softened. "To Muir Island. Moira MacTaggert can offer sanctuary. Her facilities are equipped for mutant physiology, and Banshee can help with security."
"Moira…" Logan muttered, lighting a cigar, the glow painting his scars in orange light. "Been a while since we dropped by that rock. Good woman, though. Smart enough to keep even Hank on his toes."
"Indeed," Storm said. "And she will not turn us away."
Rachel rocked Nathan gently. "Then we'll pack what's left and leave by morning. The Blackbird can make the trip in a few hours."
Logan exhaled smoke, gaze distant. "Let's hope the skies are clear. Been enough bad omens lately."
---
The Next Morning
The X-Men moved like a machine — silent, efficient, and exhausted. Rogue and Colossus loaded the wounded Morlocks onto stretchers, Psylocke and Kitty secured the supplies. Dazzler worked the controls of the Blackbird with an anxious, guilty energy; she still hadn't forgiven herself for what Malice made her do. Storm watched her a moment before touching her shoulder.
"You did not bring that evil upon us, Alison," Storm said gently. "You survived it. That is strength."
Dazzler managed a thin smile. "Thanks, Storm. Just… don't expect me to headline a concert anytime soon."
Logan smirked from nearby. "You're doin' fine, glowbug. You ain't the first X-Man to go evil for a weekend."
Rogue snorted. "He's got a point. We all got our dark patches."
Storm gave them both a look that said enough banter, children — but she didn't mean it harshly. The laughter helped.
The engines hummed alive, a deep, comforting roar. The Blackbird waited like a bird of steel salvation, ramp lowered, sun glinting on its wings.
Then the alarm went off.
The control screen near Dazzler flashed red — ALERT: NEW INCIDENT — WESTCHESTER COUNTY – RESIDENTIAL COLLAPSE.
The image that popped up froze everyone.
It was a home — or what used to be one. Charred walls, collapsed roof, police tape barely visible through the smoke. The nameplate on the mailbox read: S. GREY.
Kitty was the first to speak. "Wait… that's Sara Grey's house. Jean's sister."
Rachel went pale. "Sara…? But she—she's human! What the hell happened?"
Storm's jaw tightened. "That's what I intend to discover."
Rogue looked up sharply. "You ain't thinkin' of goin' there alone, are ya?"
Storm nodded once. "Yes. The rest of you must take the Blackbird and ensure the Morlocks reach Muir safely. The Marauders may attack mid-flight. You are needed there."
Logan's claws clicked halfway out, retracting again — his version of raising a hand. "Nice speech, darlin', but you ain't flyin' solo. You'll be like a headless fly without me sniffin' out who did it."
Storm raised an eyebrow. "A headless fly?"
He grinned. "Don't question the poetry, 'Ro. Let's roll."
Five minutes later, the Blackbird's engines thundered skyward, streaking off toward Muir Island. Storm and Logan stood on the lawn, wind whipping her coat and his cigar ash alike. She turned to him. "You could have gone with them."
"And miss all the fun? Nah." He flicked his cigar away, pulled his jacket tight. "You drive, I'll navigate."
---
One Hour Later – Suburban Ruins
They arrived at what used to be a quiet little neighborhood. Now it looked like a war memory — ash, police barricades, the distant flash of camera crews.
Storm parked the car just beyond the tape, stepping out with the calm grace of a queen hiding her rage. Logan followed, crouching low the moment his boots hit the dirt. He didn't speak at first; his nose did the work.
She waited, arms crossed, the wind tugging at her mohawk. "What do you sense?"
He was silent a moment longer, scanning the ground with his fingers, brushing debris aside. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with the ghost of smoke and chemical residue. Finally, he exhaled, jaw set.
"Definitely an attack," he said. "Smell of bomb powder's all over. Homemade mix, too — but professional hands. Whoever did this knew what they were doin'."
Storm's eyes narrowed. "Then it was no accident."
"Nope." He touched the scorched concrete, sniffed again. "Burnt wood, plastic… but no blood. Means no one died here. Not recently."
Storm blinked. "You can tell that?"
Logan gave a half-smile. "Darlin', I could tell you what the mailman had for breakfast if I sniff hard enough."
"Charming," she said dryly. "And Sara?"
He went quiet again, face turning serious. "Her scent's cold. Faded. Means she left before the fire started. Good news for her."
Storm exhaled slowly. "That's… a relief."
But Logan didn't stand up yet. His brows furrowed deeper, nostrils twitching. There was something else — buried beneath the obvious. Two familiar threads of scent weaving through the ashes. He froze.
"Two other scents," he muttered. "Old friends. One of 'em—" He looked up, eyes sharp. "Scott Summers."
Storm stiffened. "Cyclops?"
"Yeah." Logan's tone was flat, but something twitched behind it — irritation? Memory? Maybe both. "And the other…"
He trailed off. Even the wind seemed to pause, waiting.
"…belongs to Jean Grey."
Storm's eyes widened. "Impossible. She died before our eyes — on the moon."
"Yeah, I remember," Logan said quietly. His hand went to his temple, thumb rubbing the spot like an old wound. "But my nose don't lie, 'Ro. It's her. Or somethin' that smells exactly like her."
They stood there in the ruins, silent except for the faint hum of distant sirens. The sunlight turned the ash gold.
Storm finally said, "You do not seem… surprised. Or even disturbed."
Logan blinked, as if noticing his own calm for the first time. "Huh. You're right."
He crouched again, staring at nothing in particular. "When I smelled her scent, it should've hit me. Should've felt that gut punch — y'know, the one that makes you wanna drown in whiskey and bad memories. But… nothin'. Feels like the part of me that cared's gone quiet."
Storm studied him a moment, her gaze soft but sharp. "Perhaps you have healed more than you think."
He chuckled — low, humorless. "Or maybe I'm too damn tired to mourn anymore."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — just heavy. Shared. Storm brushed ash from her sleeve, looking over the ruins. "If Jean truly lives, that would explain much. Cyclops abandoning Lee Forrester. His disappearance. Perhaps he found her… and left to protect her."
"Or to hide her," Logan muttered. "Question is — from what?"
Storm turned to him, cloak fluttering in the breeze. "Do you even need to ask what we do next?"
He grinned, teeth glinting in the pale sunlight. "Didn't think so, boss."
They followed the scents — faint trails of memory and miracle — leading them away from the suburbs, down an old back road swallowed by forest. The tracks were faint, overpowered by the scent of pine and damp soil, but Logan moved like a bloodhound with purpose. Storm followed close, eyes scanning the treeline.
Hours passed. No words, just the rhythm of footsteps and wind. For a moment, it felt like the old days — two survivors carrying the weight of gods, chasing ghosts.
Finally, Logan stopped. He stood still, head low. "That's it. Trail ends here."
Storm frowned. "How can that be?"
He sniffed again, frustrated. "Vanished. Like they walked off the edge of the world. Either they masked their scent… or they ain't here anymore."
Storm looked around the clearing — silent, empty, haunted. "Then our journey has added only more questions."
Logan sighed, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "Story of our lives, darlin'."
She smiled faintly. "Indeed."
For a long moment they stood there — two warriors framed by the moonlight, the forest whispering around them. Somewhere out there, the ghosts of Jean and Scott — or their shadows — were moving. The world felt heavier again.
Storm turned to him. "Let's return. Our people await us, and we have much to prepare."
"Yeah." He took one last look at the empty woods. "But I got a feelin' this ain't over. Not by a long shot."
They walked back to the car with their questions, headlights carving two pale lines through the dark. And behind them, unseen, a faint warmth flickered in the ashes of the ruined house — a small, phoenix-shaped ember glowing once before fading into smoke.