Cyclops: Fear No Gods (Marvel)

The room was silent.

Not the silence of discomfort, nor the silence of shock—but the kind of silence that precedes a storm. A moment suspended in time, where no one dared to breathe, let alone move.

Scott stood calmly in the center of it all, unshaken, his posture military-straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back as though he had not just incapacitated one of Winston Frost's guards with absolute precision.

His eyes still glowed faintly, a subtle warning to everyone in the room.

Emma could feel the tension thick in the air, pressing down like a weight.

The guards were on edge, their hands hovering over their weapons, uncertain, their training screaming at them to act, yet their instincts telling them to stay still. Her gaze flickered, scanning the room taking in everything all at once as if it was the first time she was witnessing such a scene.

To the guard on the ground, cradling his broken wrist, his expression contorted with pain but silent.

To the other guards, their stances subtly shifting, their fingers twitching over their holstered guns.

To Scott, who remained unmoving, his expression unreadable.

To her father, who sat perfectly still, his features carved into icy control.

Her father had not reacted at all, no twitch of a brow nor any visible display of anger. Emma knew better than anyone that meant he was furious, no beyond furious. She had seen many men challenge Winston Frost over the years. Competitors, rivals, political figures, even government officials.

None had left unscathed.

None had dared to directly strike at his authority like this.

Not until now.

She attempted to probe into Scott's mind again, pushing deeper, searching for any weakness in his mental defenses. Yet for all her considerable efforts, she received nothing in return.

No gaps.

No cracks.

Not even a sliver of access.

His mind was an impenetrable fortress, stronger than even the most trained telepaths she had encountered. The thought of it made Emma grit her teeth in frustration, hands clenching behind her back. 'How?' She pulled back quickly, her own defenses reinforcing instinctively.

Then, telepathically, she reached out to Xavier.

{"Professor—"} she hesitated for only a fraction of a second before continuing. {"You need to leave. Now."}

She felt his mental acknowledgment before he responded. {"Emma—"}

{"He won't listen to you now."} She knew it with absolute certainty.

Scott's words had already been an insult, but the attack—that had been declaration of war. Her father never forgot a slight, no matter how big or small. He did not suffer disrespect nor did suffer insubordination and above all else—he did not let go of a grudge.

{"You won't just be leaving empty-handed,"} she warned. {"You'll be leaving with Winston Frost as your enemy."} There was a weight to those words, one she knew Xavier understood. She felt his hesitation—his unwavering desire to try and reach a peaceful resolution.

But it was too late for that.

Winston would hunt him down the way he hunted all his enemies. Methodically and completely devoid of mercy.

Charles Xavier sat in silence, his mind racing as he tried to grasp what had just happened as Scott's actions had derailed this meeting completely. He had come here hoping to reach Winston Frost, to appeal to his pragmatism, to secure Emma a place where she could grow beyond the confines of her father's ruthless ambitions.

Instead, Scott had made an enemy of him.

Not for the first time, Charles was beginning to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he had bitten off more than he could chew when it came to Scott Summers. He had known, from the moment he had first me Scott that the young man had been irrevocably scarred. That his experiences had shaped him, hardened him in ways that Charles had yet to fully understand.

He had thought they had reached an understanding, that after everything, Scott had agreed to work with him toward a shared goal—a vision of a future where mutants could thrive without fear.

But now…?

Now he wasn't so sure.

Logan had warned him.

Amelia had warned him.

He's dangerous, Charles. You can't control him. You might think you're on the same page, but Scott will never follow your lead the way you want him to.

Charles had believed that, despite their differences, Scott and he could find balance—a way to coexist, to align their efforts toward something greater. But today was a stark reminder that Scott had his own way of handling things, a way that Charles could not control.

Winston was the first to break the silence. "Impressive," he said at last, his voice smooth and measured. "Very impressive."

Charles turned his attention back to the man, his stomach tightening at the undercurrent in Winston's tone.

Winston leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "However," he continued, "this little display has done nothing but confirm my concerns about you, Professor." Charles felt his jaw tighten. "You surround yourself with children," Winston said, his voice cool, detached, "children too arrogant to understand the consequences of their actions."

Emma remained still beside him, her gaze sharp and unreadable, though Charles suspected she was already analyzing Scott with renewed curiosity. Scott, for his part, said nothing. He stood as he always did—calm, unshaken, a silent challenge in his posture alone.

Charles exhaled slowly before inclining his head, choosing his words carefully. "I apologize on Scott's behalf," he said evenly. "His words were uncalled for." He paused, then added, "and I can assure you that this incident does not reflect the values of my institute."

Winston tilted his head, an amused smirk curling at his lips. "Empty apologies, Professor," he said. "We both know the boy spoke his mind." His cold gaze flicked back toward Scott, studying him as though examining an asset rather than a person. "And he wasn't wrong."

That surprised Charles.

Even Emma's eyes widened slightly, though she quickly masked her reaction.

Winston continued, his voice eerily matter-of-fact. "I do use my children as tools," he admitted without hesitation. "I expect them to bear the weight of the Frost name and the wealth that comes with it." His gaze swept across the room, and Charles could feel the unshakable conviction in his words. "It is simply the way of the world," Winston stated.

His attention returned to Charles.

"And from what I have gathered, you are dead set on ignoring that truth," he said, his voice edged with mild amusement. "Naively pursuing an idealistic fantasy of equality and harmony."

Charles' hands clenched subtly against the arms of his wheelchair. "It is not naive to believe in the hope of a better future," he said firmly.

Winston let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as though he had expected nothing less.

"Hope," he repeated, the word laced with scornful amusement as he leaned back in his chair, exuding effortless confidence. "Hope is the currency of fools, Professor," he said smoothly. "Power—" he gestured lightly with one hand "—that is the only thing that matters in this world."

He locked eyes with Charles.

"You know it."

He turned his gaze toward Emma.

"She knows it."

Then, finally, he looked at Scott.

"And even he knows it."

Charles felt something cold settle in his chest.

But Winston wasn't done.

His gaze sharpened slightly, studying Scott with something akin to curiosity, before he added. "Unfortunately—he's too shortsighted to wield that power effectively."

Scott tilted his head slightly, his expression unmoving, his gaze locked onto Winston with a quiet intensity. "Do you believe your power is absolute, Mr. Frost?" The words were spoken calmly, but the air in the room shifted instantly.

Charles tensed beside him, already sensing where this was going. "Scott, that's enough—"

Scott ignored him.

He took a slow step forward, his posture still composed, his hands still clasped behind his back, but there was a deliberate precision to his words. "You hide behind wealth and influence," Scott continued, voice even. "But neither of those will save you when the world turns against mutants."

Emma's fingers twitched slightly at her sides, but she remained silent, watching the exchange with sharp focus.

Winston's gaze darkened, his expression turning colder by the second.

Scott pressed on. "When that happens," he said, "you won't be spared. Not even by association." Scott's head tilted ever so slightly. "You think you can navigate the political landscape, control the narrative, use your wealth as a shield—but when the world decides mutants are a problem?" Scott's voice didn't rise, but the weight of his words filled the room. "Your name, your fortune, your power—" he gave a small, measured pause, "—will be rendered meaningless."

A sharp, dangerous tension spread through the air like an impending storm.

Winston's jaw tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke—his voice low and edged with warning. "Mind your tongue, boy," Winston said, each word deliberate. "Or you'll lose it."

Scott's response was immediate.

"Does the truth make you uncomfortable?"

The challenge hung in the air like a blade, sharp and cutting.

Scott took a single step closer, his presence unyielding. "You talk about power," he said, voice still eerily calm, "but you're afraid."

Emma inhaled sharply, feeling the words strike with an impact beyond the verbal.

Scott's expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed to burn, unwavering in their focus on Winston. "When the world turns against mutants, it won't matter what your name is," Scott continued. "It won't matter how many zeroes are in your bank account. The end result will still be the same. You will be left just as weak and powerless as those look you down upon. But whereas they are used to having nothing, you who so Lord over others your abundance will find yourself…helpless. Weak. Pathetic. Pitiful."

The words landed like gunfire.

For the first time, Winston reacted. "Enough!" His voice was a snarl, his usual cold and controlled demeanor slipping for just a fraction of a second, anger flashing across his face. The guards stiffened immediately, their hands inching toward their weapons, but none of them moved without a direct order.

Emma remained still, though her heart had begun to pound in her chest.

Winston's gaze narrowed, sharp with barely restrained fury. "You presume to lecture me?" He said, voice venomous. "You are nothing but a child." Scott didn't flinch. "You have no idea what it takes to survive in this world," Winston continued, voice cutting.

Scott, finally, let out a quiet exhale—almost like a humorless chuckle.

"I do know," he said, voice softer now, yet no less firm.

His expression was unreadable as he lifted his gaze fully to meet Winston's.

"And more importantly?" He said, his tone almost casual, yet layered with something deeper. "It takes far more courage to survive in this world than to stand up to men like you. Even if you are a Frost."

A stillness fell over the room, thick and suffocating.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Emma swallowed, unable to ignore the way Winston's expression twitched—just for a fraction of a second—before he masked it beneath something unreadable.

Then, with a low, amused hum, Winston leaned back in his chair. "You have fire, I'll give you that," he admitted, his tone carrying an edge of something calculating. "But fires," he continued, "burn out quickly." His gaze sharpened, cold and unrelenting. "And I doubt you have the means to keep that flame going for long."

Scott's jaw tightened slightly, but before he could respond Charles finally intervened. "Perhaps," Charles said smoothly, though there was tension beneath his voice, "it would be wise if we spoke privately, Mr. Frost."

Winston's attention flicked to Charles as if remembering he was still in the room.

A beat of silence.

Then—Winston smiled. "Easily done, Professor." His voice returned to its usual smooth confidence, the momentary loss of control already buried beneath his calculated mask. "Emma," Winston said, his tone expectant, "accompany young Mr. Summers outside."

Emma immediately knew what that meant.

It wasn't a request.

Her father wanted her to read Scott's mind.

To dig deep, uncover every little secret, and find everything that could be used against him.

She nodded obediently, keeping her face carefully neutral. "Of course, Father," she said smoothly. Then, with a final glance toward Winston, she turned toward Scott. "Shall we?" She said, her voice light, almost bored, but her mind was already focusing.

Scott gave her a long, unreadable look.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.

The heavy doors of the front parlour shut behind them with a resounding click, sealing Winston Frost and Charles Xavier inside for whatever negotiations were to come. Scott walked ahead, his pace even, unhurried, before he came to a stop near the grand staircase, leaning against the cool marble wall as though he had all the time in the world.

Emma studied him for a moment.

No tension in his shoulders.

No flicker of unease.

He was calm—almost relaxed—as if he hadn't just challenged her father in front of his own men.

She folded her arms, tilting her head. 'What the hell is wrong with him?'

She had met people who were bold, even reckless, but this? This was something different.

Emma didn't even bother attempting to read his mind, Scott's mental defenses were a fortress—stronger than any she had ever encountered. But she didn't need telepathy to sense that he was different.

Stronger.

Sharper.

Uncompromising.

She exhaled sharply and spoke again. "Why did you say those things?" she asked, her voice measured, but carrying an edge of genuine curiosity.

Scott turned his head, meeting her gaze directly, his eyes never wavering. They didn't roam over her, didn't linger on her figure the way so many men's did.

He simply looked at her.

Saw her.

Emma felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

It was a strange kind of exposure, a feeling she had never experienced before—being seen, not as a Frost, not as beautiful, not as a pawn or an asset—but simply as herself.

She didn't like it.

Scott's voice broke through her thoughts. "Because it was the truth," he said simply.

Emma scoffed. "Do you even know what kind of man my father is?" She asked.

Scott remained silent.

She folded her arms, stepping closer, searching for something—anything—in his face. "He won't let this go," she warned.

Still, no reaction.

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Do you even understand what you've done? What you've got yourself into?"

Scott finally moved, a faint, almost amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Are you worried about me?" Emma felt heat rise to her face before she could stop it.

Her back stiffened, her expression immediately turning into a scowl. "N-No," she said quickly—too quickly and she hated the way the word stumbled out of her mouth.

Scott didn't react beyond that same infuriatingly faint smirk.

Emma composed herself, lifting her chin slightly. "I just don't understand," she said, her tone now cool and controlled. "Why would you provoke him like that?"

Scott exhaled slowly before answering. "Because people like your father thrive on fear," he said and Emma stilled. "They use fear to control people," Scott continued. "And if you give in to that fear?" He shrugged. "They win."

Emma found herself staring.

There was no hesitation in his voice, no arrogance, just a calm certainty that she wasn't sure she had ever encountered before.

'Is he brave or reckless?' Her mind worked quickly, trying to categorize him, to define him. "You've made an enemy of him," she said, her voice quieter this time. "He's going to crush you. He'll stop at nothing to destroy you."

Scott was unbothered. "He can try," he said simply.

Emma let out a small, disbelieving laugh, bemused, filled with a strange kind of wonder. "You really don't fear him, do you?"

The idea was so strange to her as everyone she had ever met had feared Winston Frost. Every businessman, every politician, every enemy he had ever encountered—all of them had feared him. She had spent her entire life understanding that power meant control, and control meant fear.

Yet, this boy, standing before her now, didn't fear Winston at all.

Scott shook his head. "No."

Emma's brow furrowed slightly. "Why?" She asked.

Scott turned fully toward her now, his gaze as steady as ever. "Do you want to know why I don't fear your father?" He asked. Emma gave a small nod of her head and Scott's next words made her breathless. "Because if I bow to men like him," he said, "I'll never be ready for what's coming."

A chill ran down Emma's spine.

Scott's voice wasn't dramatic.

He wasn't saying it to intimidate her or to impress her.

It was just fact.

"The world won't listen to mutants who kneel," Scott continued. "It only listens to those who stand. If I bow to your father, then I will break under the weight of the world. That is why I do not fear him. In face of what is to come for those like you and me, your father is nothing compared to that."

Emma couldn't look away.

Scott turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting toward the front parlour as the doors opened. Charles Xavier exited, his expression unreadable, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his wheelchair. It was only as Scott's gaze left hers that Emma exhaled, only just realizing she had been holding her breath.