Three months after my recovery, we were stronger than ever.
My telepathy had stabilized at being able to control around 500 people with focused effort—still nowhere near Xavier's potential, but respectable. More importantly, I'd learned to use my powers more efficiently, doing more with less strain.
The skill collection continued to grow:
**From a linguistics professor**: Fluency in French, German, Japanese, and Arabic (adding to the Russian and Mandarin I already had). My brain was becoming a polyglot's dream.
**From a professional poker player**: Advanced probability calculation, reading micro-expressions, emotional intelligence. This made me exponentially better at reading people, powered or not.
**From a physical therapist**: Deep understanding of human biomechanics, how the body moved, where weaknesses were. Combined with my telepathic ability to affect pain receptors, this made me surprisingly effective at non-lethal takedowns.
**From an MIT engineering student** (who thought he was tutoring me): Advanced mathematics, physics, engineering principles. My understanding of how the world worked at a fundamental level had expanded dramatically.
Each skill enhanced the others in unexpected ways. Medical knowledge combined with biomechanics made me a better fighter. Engineering knowledge combined with electronics made me a better infiltrator. Languages combined with emotional intelligence made me a better negotiator.
I was becoming what Emma had warned about: someone who could do almost anything if I put my mind to it. The question was whether I'd use that versatility for good or fall into the same trap she had.
---
The test came on a cold November evening.
We'd been tracking a human trafficking ring operating out of the docks—Kingpin's operation, but run by a lieutenant named Marcus Hendricks. The man was a monster, but he was also incredibly careful. SHIELD hadn't been able to build a case against him despite months of investigation.
So we decided to handle it ourselves.
"Eleven guards visible," Felicia reported from her overwatch position. "Thermal shows another thirty inside the warehouse. Plus what looks like about twenty captives in the basement level."
"Weapons?" I asked.
"Lots. This isn't street-level security—these guys have military-grade hardware."
"Which they won't hesitate to use," Elektra added. She'd been inside similar operations before. "Hendricks shoots witnesses. He won't let those captives live if he thinks we're coming."
"Then we don't give him time to think." I reached out with my telepathy, touching the minds in the building. Most were guards—hired thugs without strong mental discipline. But Hendricks himself was harder to read, protected by experience and natural paranoia.
"I can control about thirty of the guards if I push hard," I reported. "The rest will require direct intervention."
"I've got an angle on Hendricks's office," Felicia said. "Tranq round to the neck, he's down before he can give orders."
"And the captives?" Maya signed.
"That's what you and Elektra are for. Basement access, get them out while I'm controlling the guards and Felicia's providing overwatch."
"What about me?" Jessica asked.
"You coordinate with SHIELD backup. Once the shooting stops, we'll need them to actually arrest these people and process the victims."
We moved into position. This was bigger than anything we'd attempted before—more guards, higher stakes, and actual lives depending on us not screwing up.
I reached out with my mind, carefully selecting which guards to control. Too many and I'd lose fine control. Too few and we'd be overwhelmed. I chose the thirty positioned most strategically—the ones who could lock down corridors, control sight lines, prevent reinforcements.
*Sleep,* I commanded half of them. They dropped immediately, their confused companions looking around in alarm.
*Your friends are the enemy,* I told the other half. They turned on their comrades with sudden violence, creating chaos and confusion.
Felicia's rifle cracked. Through the scope camera feed, I watched Hendricks slump over his desk, tranquilized.
Maya and Elektra breached the basement entrance, moving like shadows. Through our tactical link, I watched them take down the four guards watching the captives—two men, two women, all armed with automatic weapons. The guards never saw them coming.
But something went wrong.
One of the captives was too terrified to move, his screaming alerting guards we hadn't accounted for. Suddenly Maya and Elektra were pinned down, automatic weapons fire tearing through the basement.
"Fuck!" I abandoned my position, rushing toward the building. I couldn't control all the guards—there were too many now, too chaotic. But I could disrupt them.
I pushed into every hostile mind I could reach, creating disorientation, confusion, phantom pains. Some guards froze. Others fired wildly. A few turned on each other, convinced their own teammates were the enemy.
It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
I reached the basement to find Maya wounded—a bullet had grazed her side—and Elektra defending her while trying to evacuate the captives. I took over, using my telekinetic abilities (still weak, but functional) to lift debris and create barriers while guiding the terrified captives toward the exit.
"Get them out!" I shouted to Elektra. "I'll hold here!"
She hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave me alone, but the captives needed guidance. She took them, and Maya limped after them despite her wound.
That left me alone with thirty hostile guards starting to recover from my mental interference.
I'd never been this outnumbered before. But I'd also never been this prepared.
I drew the weapons I'd taken from the guards—a pistol and a baton—and combined everything I'd learned. Combat techniques from Maya and Elektra. Tactical thinking from the Marine. Probability calculation from the poker player. Medical knowledge that told me exactly where to hit to disable without killing.
The first guard that came around the corner took the baton to his temple—a precise strike that knocked him unconscious without causing permanent damage. The second got the pistol's grip to his jaw. The third took a knee strike that made his leg buckle.
I moved through them like a ghost, using my telepathy to stay one step ahead, my enhanced reflexes to move faster than they could track, my medical knowledge to find pressure points and weak spots.
It wasn't pretty. I took hits—a rifle butt to the ribs, a knife that slashed my arm, countless bruises. But I stayed up, stayed moving, using everything I'd learned to survive.
When SHIELD arrived ten minutes later, they found me standing in the middle of thirty unconscious guards, bleeding but victorious.
"Jesus Christ, Marcus," Jessica said, rushing to check my wounds. "What happened to 'surgical precision' and 'minimal risk'?"
"Plans change," I managed, adrenaline wearing off and pain hitting hard. "Are the captives safe?"
"All twenty rescued, Maya's wound is superficial, and Hendricks is in custody with enough evidence to put him away for life." She helped me to the medic team. "But you're an idiot. You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't. And twenty people are free because we acted."
"Still an idiot," she said, but she was smiling.
---
Back at the base, getting patched up, I reflected on what had happened.
I'd gone into that warehouse thinking I was invincible, that my powers and skills made me untouchable. I'd come out bloody, bruised, and very aware that I was still human. Still vulnerable.
But I'd also proven something important: even without overwhelming force, even outnumbered and wounded, I could survive. I could win.
"You did good tonight," Elektra said, watching the medic work on my wounds. "Stupid, reckless, but good."
"That's basically my brand at this point."
"It suits you." She hesitated, then: "Marcus, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Your women—Felicia, Maya, Jessica. They're happy with the arrangement you have. The shared mental connection, the... intimacy. Do you ever want that with me?"
I looked at her carefully, seeing the vulnerability beneath her usual stoicism. "I do. But only if you want it. I'm not going to push, Elektra. You've been through enough of people using you."
"What if I said I was ready? Not for everything, not all at once. But... ready to try."
My heart rate picked up. "Then I'd say welcome to the family. For real this time."
She smiled—a rare, genuine expression. "Okay. But maybe wait until you're not bleeding everywhere first."
"Fair point."
---
Two weeks later, after my wounds had healed, Elektra came to me.
"I'm ready," she said simply. "If the offer still stands."
We gathered in the bedroom—all five of us now. Elektra was nervous but determined, her usual confidence wavering.
"We'll go at your pace," I assured her. "Nothing you don't want. Just say the word and we stop."
"Okay."
I started with just a kiss—soft, gentle, letting her set the tempo. She responded tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. Through our mental link (which I'd carefully established with her permission), I felt her desire warring with her fear of vulnerability.
*I've got you,* I sent to her telepathically. *You're safe here. Always safe.*
That seemed to help. She relaxed into the kiss, her hands moving to my chest. Felicia and Maya joined us, their touches gentle and welcoming. Jessica hung back, giving Elektra space while still present.
We undressed slowly, carefully, giving Elektra time to adjust to each new sensation. When she was finally naked, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be, I could feel her trembling.
"You're beautiful," I told her, and meant it. Scars covered her body—a map of violence and survival—but they were part of her story, part of what made her who she was.
"I'm damaged," she replied.
"So am I. So are we all, in our own ways. That's not what matters."
I made love to her slowly, carefully, letting her feel the mental connection that made everything so intense. I shared my desire, my affection, my respect for her strength. And I felt her walls slowly crumbling, letting us in for the first time.
When she came, crying out in surprise and pleasure, I felt her emotional walls shatter completely. She clung to me, tears streaming down her face—not from pain, but from finally letting someone in.
"Thank you," she whispered afterward. "For being patient. For making me feel like I matter."
"You do matter," I assured her. "You always have."
She smiled and finally, truly relaxed in my arms.
---
The rest of the night was spent integrating Elektra into our dynamic. Felicia showed her how the mental connection could amplify pleasure. Maya demonstrated positions that worked best with our particular combination of bodies. Jessica explained the unspoken rules we'd developed—communication, consent, respect.
By morning, Elektra was fully one of us. No longer just a team member, but family in every sense.
"This is nice," she admitted as we all lay tangled together. "I could get used to this."
"Good," I said. "Because you're stuck with us now."
"I think I can live with that."