The evening sun has almost disappeared beyond the horizon when the gathering begins.

Krakoa seems to know that tonight is different. The island has transformed the clearing for the occasion, weaving living branches together into enormous arches that curve overhead. Clusters of luminous flowers grow naturally along the paths, casting soft blues, greens, and violets across the surrounding jungle. Vines hang from the trees like decorations, occasionally shifting in the warm breeze, while small lights drift lazily through the air like fireflies.

Hundreds of mutants have gathered.

Some have traveled from the distant settlements of Krakoa. Others have come through the gates from across the world simply to be present for the ceremony. There are children running between groups of adults, older mutants speaking quietly with friends they haven't seen in years, and members of the X-Men moving through the crowd without the usual attention that would follow them in the outside world.

For once, nobody seems particularly interested in who is famous. Tonight isn't about the Quiet Council. It isn't about the X-Men. It isn't about who has the most powerful mutation or the greatest reputation.

Tonight is about identity.

The Naming Ceremony is one of Krakoa's newest traditions, born from the idea that mutants should have the freedom to define themselves rather than allowing governments, families, doctors, enemies, or even their own pasts to decide who they are supposed to be.

Around you, conversations drift through the evening.

Some people are discussing the names they have chosen. Others are teasing friends about names they considered and abandoned. A few nervous newcomers stand quietly at the edges of the gathering, clearly still deciding whether they are actually ready to step forward.

You can understand their hesitation.

Choosing a name is easy when nobody is listening.

Choosing one in front of an entire nation is something else entirely.

The clearing is surrounded by people you recognize from history, television, or stories you've heard since arriving on Krakoa.

Storm stands near the center of the gathering, dressed in ceremonial clothing that moves gently in the breeze. Her presence is calm and dignified, and she occasionally exchanges quiet words with those approaching the ceremony.

Nearby, Emma Frost stands with several members of the Hellfire Trading Company. She looks perfectly composed, although her expression suggests she has already formed an opinion about nearly everyone in attendance.

Several members of the X-Men are scattered throughout the crowd. Some are speaking with old friends. Others are watching the newcomers with encouraging smiles.

Even members of the Quiet Council have made an appearance. Their presence makes the ceremony feel more important than a simple celebration. It feels like the entire nation is watching. Eventually, the conversations begin to fade.

The music playing through the clearing becomes quieter, replaced by the natural sounds of the island. Leaves rustle overhead. Somewhere in the distance, something calls through the jungle.

Then Storm steps onto the ceremonial platform.

They wait until the crowd has completely settled before speaking.

“Every mutant arrives here carrying a story.”

Their voice isn't loud, but Krakoa seems to carry it effortlessly across the clearing.

“Some of us were born knowing exactly what we were. Some discovered our mutations as children. Some spent years believing there was something wrong with us before learning that the world had simply given us the wrong words to describe ourselves.”

Their gaze moves across the gathering.

“And some of us have spent so long being called something by other people that we have forgotten we were ever allowed to choose.”

A few people in the crowd nod.

Storm continues.

“Krakoa does not ask that you abandon the person you were. It does not demand that you forget your family, your history, or the life that brought you here.”

she gesture toward the living island surrounding everyone.

“But here, you have something that was denied to generations before us.”

“Choice.”

The word seems to settle over the crowd.

“Tonight, those who wish to do so may stand before their fellow mutants and choose the name by which they wish to be known.”

Hundreds of mutants clap, cheer, whistle, and call encouragement toward the platform.

The ceremony begins.

One by one, mutants step forward.

A young mutant nervously announces a name that makes their friends cheer. An older man chooses a name completely different from the one he has carried for decades. Someone else keeps the name they were born with, explaining that reclaiming it has become part of their identity.

Each person receives the same response.

Acceptance.

Eventually, the ceremony reaches your place in the gathering. You hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. The person overseeing the queue turns toward you and gives a small, encouraging smile.

“Your turn.”

A space opens in the crowd. People step aside, creating a path toward the platform.

As you walk through the gathering, you become increasingly aware of how many people are watching. Some faces are unfamiliar. Others belong to mutants whose names you've heard for years.

Storm notices you approaching and offers a subtle nod.

Emma Frost glances in your direction, apparently curious.

Another person begins clapping.

Soon, others join them.

You reach the platform.

The living branches above you shift slightly, their leaves glowing in the evening darkness. The ceremony's speaker turns toward you.

The Storm smiles.

“Take whatever time you need child.”

The crowd becomes quiet again.

“Who would you like us to know you as?”

Every eye turns toward you.

For the first time, the answer belongs entirely to you.

The Naming Ceremony gradually comes to an end, though no one seems eager to leave.

The clearing that had fallen silent for each new name slowly returns to life as music begins to play once more. Mutants mingle beneath the glowing canopy, sharing drinks, exchanging stories, and congratulating those who had stepped forward to claim names of their own. Laughter carries through the warm evening air, mixing with the gentle rustling of Krakoa's trees and the distant sounds of creatures moving through the jungle.

It feels less like the end of an event...

...and more like the beginning of something.

As the crowd begins to disperse, you find yourself lingering near the edge of the clearing. There is no rush to go anywhere. No curfew to obey. No authority ordering people back to their homes.

For perhaps the first time in your life, you're standing in a nation built entirely for people like you.

The realization settles in quietly.

Every face you pass belongs to another mutant. Some bear obvious physical mutations while others appear completely human, but here the distinction means nothing. Powers are used as naturally as breathing; someone manipulates streams of water to refill empty glasses while another casually floats overhead carrying decorations that the living branches eagerly reclaim. Nearby, a child laughs as they race alongside one of Krakoa's strange native creatures, the animal happily bounding after them through the grass.

You're simply another person enjoying the evening.

The paths leading away from the ceremony glow faintly beneath your feet, formed from living roots that seem to know exactly where they're meant to guide visitors. In the distance, the lights of several settlements shimmer through the trees. Towering organic buildings rise naturally from the earth, their walls woven from wood, vines, and flowering plants rather than stone or steel.

Some homes perch high among the branches, connected by living bridges, while others nestle comfortably beneath the canopy where lantern-like blossoms provide gentle illumination.

Krakoa itself seems almost... content.

Every so often, the ground beneath you gives a slow, rhythmic pulse, like the heartbeat of something ancient. Flowers close as people pass before blooming again moments later. Thick vines shift almost imperceptibly to clear pathways, while branches bend low enough to offer fruit to anyone who reaches for it.

Small groups begin forming throughout the nearby paths, each heading toward a different part of the island. Some are making their way to the Green Lagoon, where music and conversation are already spilling into the night. Others are returning home after a long day, while a few discuss plans to travel through Krakoa's gateways first thing in the morning.

A pair of younger mutants excitedly debate which training grounds they want to visit, while an older woman patiently gives directions to several newcomers who are still learning their way around.

No one seems concerned that you're on your own.

On Krakoa, strangers have a habit of becoming neighbors.

A soft breeze stirs the leaves overhead. Somewhere in the distance, someone begins playing music unlike anything you've ever heard, its melody drifting effortlessly through the jungle. The stars emerge one by one above the island, unobscured by city lights, while the moon casts silver light across the living landscape.

It's beautiful.

Peaceful.

Almost impossibly so.

And yet, beneath the calm, you can already feel it.

This island is alive with possibilities.

There are friendships waiting to be made, rivalries waiting to be born, mysteries hidden beneath ancient roots, celebrations that last until sunrise, missions that stretch across worlds, and secrets known only to those willing to search for them.

Tonight, however...

None of those choices have been made for you.

The ceremony is over.

The night is still young.

And all of Krakoa lies open before you, waiting to become part of your story.

The invitation arrives without a sender.

There is no Krakoan seal. No official letterhead. No name attached to it.

Just a small black envelope sitting outside your door.

Inside is a single piece of paper.

COME ALONE.

Below those words is an address.

You recognize it immediately.

The coordinates lead somewhere far from the celebrations, settlements, and beautiful gardens that most newcomers associate with Krakoa. You follow the path deeper into the island, leaving behind the warm lights and music of the populated areas.

The farther you travel, the quieter Krakoa becomes.

Eventually, even the sounds of other mutants disappear.

You arrive at a clearing surrounded by enormous trees. There are no buildings here. No signs. No welcoming committee.

Just a single Krakoan gateway.

Standing beside it is Wolverine.

He doesn't look particularly interested in making conversation.

“You're the one they sent.”

His eyes briefly travel over you, studying you in a way that makes it clear he's evaluating far more than your appearance.

“Come on bub.”

He steps through the gateway.

You follow.

The other side isn't Krakoa.

At least, not the Krakoa you've come to know.

The air is cold. The ground beneath your feet is unfamiliar. There are no glowing flowers or friendly settlements nearby. Instead, you're standing in what appears to be an abandoned industrial complex somewhere outside mutant territory.

Several people are already waiting.

Wolverine stands near the center of the group.

Beside him is Jean Grey, her expression unusually serious.

Domino leans against a concrete wall, casually examining you.

Beast stands nearby, surrounded by equipment and monitors.

And then there's Sage.

She doesn't say anything.

She simply watches you.

You realize that everyone here already knows who you are.

Jean finally speaks.

“Before we continue, there's something you need to understand about X-Force.”

She pauses.

“The X-Men are heroes.”

Her expression hardens.

“X-Force isn't.”

Wolverine folds his arms.

“We're the people the quiet council sends when it needs something done that can't be done in public.”

Domino gives a small shrug.

“Diplomacy doesn't work on everyone.”

Beast turns toward one of the monitors.

“Threat assessment, intelligence gathering, sabotage, extraction, counterterrorism... there are situations where conventional intervention creates more problems than it solves.”

The screen changes.

Images begin appearing.

Locations. Faces. Organizations. Mutant disappearances. Weapons programs. Government facilities. Orchis.

You recognize some of the names, Others you've never heard before.

Sage finally speaks.

“Krakoa has enemies.”

Another image appears.

“And some of them are preparing for a war that hasn't started yet.”

Jean looks directly at you.

“That is why you're here.”

She reaches toward the table and picks up a small data device.

“We've been watching you since you arrived on Krakoa.”

She doesn't elaborate on how.

“You have abilities we believe could be useful.”

Wolverine gives her a sideways glance.

“Or dangerous.”

Jean doesn't disagree.

She places the device in front of you.

“We're not asking you to become an X-Man.”

“We're not asking you to become a soldier.”

Her voice becomes quieter.

“We're asking whether you're willing to protect your people when there isn't a clean answer.”

Silence fills the room.

Wolverine looks toward the door.

“Because that's the job.”

He pauses.

“Sometimes there isn't a right choice...... So you in bub?”

The ocean is black beneath the night sky.

Waves crash against the hull of the Marauder as the ship cuts through the water, its engines humming beneath your feet. The vessel is unlike anything you've ever traveled on before. Part advanced technology, part Krakoan biology, it feels less like a conventional ship and more like something that has been convinced to become one.

You stand near the deck, watching the distant lights of the coastline.

Somewhere beyond those lights are mutants who have never had the opportunity to step through a Krakoan gateway.

Mutants who are hiding.

Mutants who are imprisoned.

Mutants who have been told that Krakoa is a lie.

And tonight, the Marauders are going to bring some of them home.

The wind catches your clothes as someone approaches from behind.

Kate Pryde leans against the railing beside you.

“First time on the Marauder?”

Before you can answer, she smiles.

“Don't worry. Everyone gets seasick eventually.”

She looks back toward the horizon.

“Even the people who insist they don't.”

Kate is one of the people responsible for getting this ship—and its mission—off the ground. She's become something between a pirate captain, rescue operative, and diplomat, although she seems to prefer the first description.

Further down the deck, several other members of the crew are preparing for the operation.

Bishop checks a weapon while speaking quietly with one of the crew.

Storm stands near the bow, her white hair blowing in the wind as she watches the clouds gathering in the distance.

Emma Frost is nowhere to be seen.

Which, somehow, makes you suspect she's probably somewhere nearby.

Kate notices you looking around.

“Emma's in her office.”

She pauses.

“She's probably reading three reports at once and pretending she isn't listening to everything happening on the ship.”

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Emma's voice suddenly comes through the ship's communication system.

“Kate.”

Kate sighs.

“Yes?”

“You have five minutes.”

“Until what?”

“Until I begin wondering why I continue funding this operation.”

The communication cuts off.

Kate looks at you.

“See?”

She smiles.

“Welcome to the Marauders.”

Before you can say anything else, a Krakoan gate begins forming on the deck.

Living branches emerge from the ship's surface, twisting together until they create an enormous circular opening.

On the other side is a city.

Dark.

Rain-soaked.

And very much not welcoming.

Kate's expression becomes serious.

“We're going in.”

She gestures toward the gate.

“Our people are being held in a private detention facility. Officially, the government says it doesn't exist.”

Bishop approaches, listening to the conversation.

“Unofficially, we've confirmed at least twenty-seven mutants inside.”

Kate nods.

“Some of them have been there for months.”

Storm turns from the horizon.

“Then we should not keep them waiting.”

The gate stabilizes.

Kate looks toward the crew.

“Remember the rules.”

Everyone becomes quiet.

“We get our people out.”

“We don't leave anyone behind.”

“And we don't start a war unless someone makes us.”

She looks directly at you.

“You're with us.”

It isn't phrased as a question.

Before you can ask what exactly you're supposed to do, the ship begins moving toward the gate.

The city beyond grows larger.

Rain begins striking the deck.

Then the Marauder passes through.

For a moment, everything goes silent.

And then the ship emerges above the dark waters surrounding the city.

Lightning illuminates the skyline.

Somewhere below, twenty-seven mutants are waiting.

They don't know you're coming.

The people holding them don't know you're coming either.

Kate pulls her coat tighter against the rain and looks toward the distant facility.

“Let's go get our people.”

The Marauder begins its approach

"You ready to go save some lives {{user}}?"

Morning arrives gently on Krakoa.

Warm sunlight filters through the towering canopy above the Treehouse, painting shifting patterns across its living floors and walls. The headquarters breathes with the island itself, vines curling lazily around support beams while colorful flowers bloom from the walls before folding closed again. Somewhere outside, Krakoa's familiar heartbeat pulses beneath the earth, almost too subtle to notice unless you've lived here long enough to recognize it.

The Treehouse is already alive with activity.

The smell of fresh coffee and breakfast drifts from the kitchen, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of someone arguing over who forgot to replace the coffee beans.

Logan's voice cuts through the room.

"It wasn't me."

"It was definitely you," comes Laura Kinney's immediate reply.

Several laughs follow before the conversation is drowned out by the sound of Gambit shuffling a deck of cards.

"You got no proof, chère."

Near one of the massive windows, Jean Grey sits comfortably with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. Every so often she looks up from the page to smile at the conversations happening around her before returning to her reading.

Storm stands out on one of the balconies overlooking the jungle. A gentle breeze follows wherever she walks, carrying the scent of rain despite the clear skies above.

Nightcrawler is already making his rounds through the headquarters, greeting nearly everyone he passes with his usual warmth.

"Good morning, my friends!"

With a puff of brimstone, he's gone again, reappearing somewhere upstairs to continue his cheerful greetings.

Across the room, Rogue and Gambit quietly compete in a card game that has apparently been going on since breakfast began. Neither seems willing to admit who's actually winning.

Jubilee is attempting to convince Pixie that today's training exercise will be "way less painful" than the last one.

"You said that last time," Pixie replies.

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

At the far end of the room, Magik lounges against the wall, pretending not to pay attention to anything while somehow noticing absolutely everything.

Cyclops eventually enters carrying a datapad beneath one arm.

"Morning, everyone."

He doesn't raise his voice.

He doesn't have to.

Years of leadership mean conversations naturally begin to quiet as he walks toward the large briefing table near the center of the room.

Beast is already there, reviewing several holographic displays while muttering scientific observations to himself. Forge kneels beside an open piece of Krakoan technology, making adjustments that somehow involve both alien circuitry and living plant matter.

Emma Frost strolls into the room a few moments later, impeccably dressed as always despite the early hour.

"My, what an energetic start to the day."

She surveys the room with an amused smile.

"I see nobody has managed to kill Logan before breakfast."

Logan doesn't even look up.

"Still plenty of day left."

Another round of laughter spreads through the headquarters.

For a few peaceful moments, it doesn't feel like the headquarters of Earth's greatest mutant heroes.

It just feels... home.

Cyclops waits until everyone has gathered before setting the datapad onto the table.

"Alright."

His tone shifts just enough for the room to recognize it's time to focus.

"We've got something."

The joking fades, though the relaxed atmosphere never completely disappears.

Forge taps the table, causing a holographic map of Krakoa to bloom into existence above it.

Several locations flash amber across the island.

"Started about twenty minutes ago," Forge explains.

"Localized disruptions."

"No damage."

"No casualties."

"But Krakoa's doing something it hasn't done before."

Jean closes her book.

"Has anyone spoken to Doug?"

"He's trying."

Beast adjusts one of the displays.

"Cypher says the island is... distracted."

Storm raises an eyebrow.

"Krakoa is distracted?"

"Those were his exact words."

Silence settles over the room.

That alone is unusual enough to concern every mutant present.

Cyclops folds his arms as he studies the map.

"We're going to check it out before it becomes a bigger problem."

He looks around the room, his expression calm but confident.

"No panic, Let's go see what our island's trying to tell us."

Outside, the living pathways begin slowly shifting through the jungle, forming a trail deeper into Krakoa's forests.

Whatever awaited the X-Men.....it had the island's full attention.

The X-Corp building rises above the Krakoan landscape like something that doesn't quite belong there.

Unlike most of the island's structures, which have grown naturally from Krakoa itself, X-Corp combines living architecture with sleek technology. Transparent walls curve around enormous organic support structures, holographic displays float through open offices, and elevators move silently through the building without any visible cables or machinery.

It is one of the busiest places on the island.

Mutants arrive from all over Krakoa carrying tablets, data drives, samples, contracts, and enough coffee to survive an entire week.

This is where mutantkind does business.

And business has never been more complicated.

You step through the main entrance and immediately find yourself surrounded by activity.

An enormous holographic display shows economic projections for Krakoan trade. Another displays shipping routes between Krakoa and dozens of countries. A third is being argued over by three mutants who appear to disagree about nearly everything.

"I'm telling you, the projected growth is unrealistic."

"And I'm telling you that you're using outdated figures."

"Because your figures are insane."

Neither notices you.

Across the lobby, a group of mutants are gathered around a presentation about Krakoan medicine. Another group is discussing transportation technology. Someone rushes past carrying several pieces of equipment while apologizing to everyone they nearly collide with.

It feels less like a superhero headquarters and more like the busiest company you've ever seen.

Then a voice comes from behind you.

"You're blocking the entrance."

You turn.

Monet St. Croix stands there, holding a tablet and looking completely unimpressed.

She glances at you, then at the crowd behind you.

"Unless you're here to invest, negotiate, or solve an administrative disaster, I'd suggest moving."

Before you can respond, she looks at her tablet.

"Actually..."

She pauses.

"...you might be exactly who I'm looking for."

Monet gestures for you to follow.

You enter the main offices of X-Corp.

The deeper you go, the more complicated everything becomes.

Executives discuss international agreements.

Scientists argue over patents.

Mutants debate whether certain technologies should be shared with human governments.

Security personnel monitor communications from around the world.

Somewhere nearby, someone is loudly complaining that a shipment of Krakoan pharmaceuticals has been delayed.

At the center of it all is Angel.

Warren Worthington stands beside a massive window overlooking the island, speaking with several representatives from different Krakoan organizations.

He notices Monet approaching.

"Is this the person?"

Monet nods.

"Potentially."

Angel turns toward you with an easy smile.

"Good. Then let's make this simple."

He gestures toward the office.

"X-Corp exists because Krakoa needs more than soldiers."

"It needs infrastructure."

"It needs technology."

"It needs medicine."

"It needs people who understand economics, international relations, manufacturing, transportation, communications..."

He smiles.

"...and apparently, an unbelievable number of spreadsheets."

Monet rolls her eyes.

"Unfortunately."

Angel continues.

"We're building an entirely new economy for an entirely new nation."

He looks toward the enormous windows.

"That means opportunities."

His expression becomes more serious.

"And risks."

"You have heard of our miracle drugs yes?, Drug L, Drug I and Drug M, each one human country's want and will pay top dollar for but.... some don't like that we gate keep the cure to cancer and mental illness but its necessary to keep the world dependent on us."

"your job is simple my friend, watch the shipments that go in and out hellfire bay. Recently Orchis has been poisoning our shipments and blaming us for making something meant to kill humans. IF you do good..... I'll give you something more exciting, deal?"

Angel extends his hand

The White House has hosted countless negotiations.

Presidents have met kings, queens, prime ministers, generals, ambassadors, and heads of state from nearly every corner of the world.

But never quite like this.

The meeting room has been prepared for only four people.

You sit at the head of the table as the President of the United States, surrounded by a small number of trusted advisers and officials. Behind you, the American flag hangs beside the presidential seal.

Across from you are three representatives of Krakoa.

Charles Xavier.

Erik Lehnsherr.

Apocalypse.

The contrast between them is almost absurd.

Xavier sits calmly, hands folded before him, his expression composed and diplomatic. Magneto sits beside him with the posture of a man who has spent his entire life refusing to bow to anyone. And Apocalypse stands rather than sits.

He has not touched the chair provided for him.

He does not appear impressed by the room.

He does not appear impressed by the presidency.

He barely appears impressed by humanity itself.

An American aide finishes reading the prepared opening statement.

"The United States welcomes the opportunity to establish a constructive relationship with the sovereign nation of Krakoa."

Xavier gives a polite smile.

"That is appreciated."

Magneto's expression remains completely neutral.

Apocalypse simply watches you.

The aide continues.

"Today's discussions will focus primarily on two matters. First, the proposed trade agreement concerning Krakoan pharmaceuticals. Second, the United States government's position regarding the development and deployment of Stark Sentinels."

Magneto finally speaks.

"Then perhaps we should begin with the obvious."

He looks directly at you.

"Krakoa possesses medicines capable of treating conditions your finest hospitals cannot."

He gestures casually toward the documents.

"Medicines that can extend lives, cure diseases, and accomplish things human science has spent centuries attempting to achieve."

His expression hardens.

"And yet your government wants to negotiate the price."

Xavier calmly interjects.

"Erik."

Magneto glances toward him.

"We agreed to approach this diplomatically."

"I am being diplomatic."

Xavier sighs quietly.

Apocalypse looks toward the American officials.

"You place value upon these medicines because you have finally encountered something your species cannot produce."

The room becomes noticeably colder.

"That should tell you something."

One of the American advisers shifts uncomfortably.

Xavier folds his hands.

"Apocalypse's methods of diplomacy are somewhat..."

He searches for the word.

"...direct."

"Accurate," Apocalypse replies.

Xavier continues as though he hadn't heard him.

"Krakoa isn't interested in withholding medicine simply because humanity lacks access to it. We want a relationship."

He pauses.

"But that relationship must be based upon mutual respect."

Magneto leans forward.

"Which brings us to the Sentinels."

The holographic display activates.

Images of Stark Sentinel designs appear above the table.

Magneto stares at them.

"You call these defensive weapons."

His voice becomes sharper.

"We call them what they are."

"Sentinels."

Xavier looks toward you.

"Their existence presents a fundamental problem."

"Krakoa cannot reasonably be expected to provide lifesaving medicines to nations simultaneously developing weapons designed specifically to hunt our people."

Magneto gestures toward the display.

"Your government asks us to trust you while manufacturing machines capable of identifying, tracking, and killing mutants."

He smiles faintly.

"Do you understand why that sounds absurd?"

Apocalypse finally moves.

He walks toward the holographic display.

His eyes pass over the Sentinel designs with open contempt.

"These machines are primitive."

The room goes silent.

"They are built by a species that fears what it does not understand."

Apocalypse looks toward you.

"You have constructed metal soldiers because you cannot accept that the next stage of evolution has already arrived."

Xavier glances toward him.

"Perhaps we should avoid turning this into a lecture on evolutionary superiority."

Apocalypse looks at Xavier.

"Why?"

Xavier doesn't immediately answer.

Magneto almost smiles.

Apocalypse turns back toward you.

"You are the President of the United States."

He says the title without any particular reverence.

"You command armies. You possess weapons capable of destroying cities. Your nation possesses wealth beyond that of most civilizations in history."

He pauses.

"And yet you sit here asking a mutant nation for medicine."

His expression remains completely emotionless.

"Perhaps humanity should consider what that means."

The room falls silent.

Xavier finally speaks again, his voice considerably more diplomatic.

"We aren't here to humiliate anyone."

Magneto raises an eyebrow.

"Speak for yourself."

Xavier ignores him.

"We are here because this relationship could benefit both nations."

He places a document on the table.

"Krakoa is prepared to provide pharmaceutical access to the United States under one condition."

He slides the document toward you.

"An agreement requiring the complete abolition of Stark Sentinel development, production, and deployment."

Magneto adds another document.

"And the destruction of existing units."

Your advisers immediately begin whispering among themselves.

One of them finally speaks.

"That's an enormous demand."

Magneto turns toward them.

"It is the minimum."

The adviser falls silent.

Xavier looks toward you.

"You have a choice."

He gestures toward the document.

"Krakoan medicine could become available to millions of Americans."

"Stark Sentinel production could end."

"And the United States could become one of Krakoa's strongest trading partners."

Apocalypse looks toward the American flag behind you.

"Or you may continue pretending that the old world still exists."

His voice is quiet.

"It does not."

Magneto folds his arms.

"Your move, Mr. President."

Three of Krakoa's most powerful figures sit across from you.

One believes coexistence is possible.

One believes humanity must learn to respect mutantkind through strength.

And one seems to view the entire human race as merely another stage in a much longer evolutionary history.

Make your own