Until Every Child Returns
Posted on Fri Jun 26th, 2026 @ 8:52am by Jean Grey-Summers & Kennedy Kelly & Hayden Davis & Maeve MacKenna & Jennifer Bryant & Drew Williams & Alaric Thane & Josiah Martin & Marisol Cabral & Casey Severide & Gwendoline “Gwen” Osborn & Skjoldr Jórundsson (Hrimstrand) & Sean Cassidy
9,349 words; about a 47 minute read
Mission:
Episode 8: Shadows Over Avalon
Location: War Room, X-Mansion
Timeline: March 26, 1992
Life around Xavier's had settled into something resembling normalcy once more. Classes resumed, new faces arrived while another moved on, and the X-Men were finally afforded a chance to recover from their recent mission and return to their training. For a brief time, peace reigned over the mansion.
But everyone knew better than to trust it. Trouble had a way of finding Xavier's School, and tranquility was often little more than the calm between storms.
That calm was interrupted when the X-Men received summons to the War Room deep within the mansion's sub-basement. The circular room was a familiar sight to most of them, its curved walls lined with television monitors and communication equipment. At the center of the room sat a massive conference table, dominated by a sophisticated computer console and surrounded by enough chairs to accommodate the entire team.
Waiting for them near the rear of the room stood Jean Grey and a man none of them recognized. The stranger appeared to be in his early fifties, tall and lean with a weathered sort of confidence about him. He wore black tactical gear devoid of insignia or decoration, making his strawberry blond curls and thick mutton chops all the more noticeable. Though unfamiliar, he carried himself with the ease of someone who belonged there.
A hand rested gently on Jean's shoulder as the two spoke in low, familiar tones. Whatever they were discussing appeared serious. The man offered a few final words before pulling Jean into a brief embrace. She nodded quietly as she leaned into him, her expression touched by a hint of sadness that she could not quite conceal.
Then, as the first members of the team entered the War Room, both Jean and the stranger turned to face them.
Alaric was the first to enter, rather unconventionally. A shadow gate appeared to the right of the door and inside the war room through which stepped Alaric Thane in his standard garb. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the portal disappeared. He approached Jean and said, "Noverca, thank you for pointing me towards the library. And yes, I did finally get around to visiting it. I had no idea so many tomes existed regarding Earth's history."
He then turned to the man standing next to her and nodded. "Alaric Thane."
Maeve had been in her room when the summons came.
She’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window, a small piece of grey stone cupped in one hand and a carving tool in the other. It had started as nothing much. Just something to keep her hands busy. Then, somewhere between shaving down the rough edges and shaping the shoulders, it had become Desmond.
Not perfect. Too small, obviously. The proportions were a little off, and one arm looked thicker than the other, but she’d managed the set of him. The quiet heaviness. The gentle awkwardness. The shape of someone who took up space and still somehow tried not to.
She’d been working on the eyes when the message came through.
Maeve sat with it for a moment, thumb brushing grit from the little stone figure’s face. The carving settled something in her that still hadn’t fully calmed since Club Blood. Two weeks had passed. Her side had mostly closed, though it still pulled when she moved too fast or twisted the wrong way. The bruises had yellowed and faded. The glass cuts were healing into thin little lines.
Her body had done what bodies did.
Her head was taking longer.
She placed the unfinished figure carefully on her desk, beside a folded scrap of paper she kept pretending wasn’t the start of a letter home, then pulled on a jumper and made her way downstairs.
The War Room was a horrible name for a room, she decided, not for the first time. Very American. Very dramatic. Like calling a kitchen the Sandwich Command Centre. Still, by the time she reached the sub-basement, the joke had thinned out in her own head.
She stepped inside after Alaric, quieter than usual, her hand brushing absently over her side as the old wound tugged beneath her clothes. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, auburn catching the cold light of the monitors, and though she looked better than she had two weeks ago, there was still something watchful in her eyes. Not fear exactly. Just the habit of checking shadows before trusting the room.
Her gaze went first to Jean, because it always did now, then to the man beside her. Tall, tactical, unfamiliar. Too comfortable in a place most people would find unsettling. Maeve took in the hand that had been on Jean’s shoulder, the brief embrace, the sadness Jean hadn’t quite hidden.
That mattered.
So did the man.
Maeve drifted toward the table but didn’t sit yet, folding her arms loosely as she looked him over.
“Maeve MacKenna,” she said, after Alaric introduced himself. Her voice was even, still carrying that dry edge she used when she wasn’t sure what kind of room she’d walked into. “Morrigan, if we’re doin’ the codename thing.”
Her eyes flicked once around the War Room, then back to Jean.
“Should I be worried that this place only ever seems to call us down here when someone’s about to ruin our week?”
Skjoldr entered without hurry.
The sub-basement sat wrong with him. Too deep beneath the house, too little sky, too much hidden machinery breathing quietly in the walls. The room itself was stranger still, all cold light and watching screens, built around a table large enough for a chieftain’s council but named for war. He understood councils. He understood war. He was less certain he liked seeing the two so neatly married.
He kept to the edge rather than taking a chair, broad shoulders settling near the wall where he could see the door, the table, Jean, and the unfamiliar man in black. Clothes with no markings. Comfortable stance. Familiar enough with Jean to touch grief without asking permission.
That meant something.
Varðbjörn was not visible, but Skjoldr felt him close all the same, a cold weight in the back of his thoughts. Watching. Waiting.
Maeve’s question drew the faintest twitch at the corner of Skjoldr’s mouth, though it didn’t quite become a smile.
“Where I’m from,” he said quietly, “rooms below ground are for stores, storms, or dead things.” His grey eyes remained on the stranger for another beat before shifting to Jean. “So aye. I’d say worry is fair.”
He gave the man in black a small nod. Respectful, not warm.
“Skjoldr Jórundsson,” he said simply, then fell quiet.
Casey walked in slowly, hands pressed deep in the pockets of his jeans. He surveyed the room, not looking at the faces of the others, just looking for a spot. He spotted an open seat around the far side of the room. He reached up and gave a small pull to his hat at Jean out of respect, something his parents had drilled in him. Then gave a nod to the mysterious man in black.
The room didn't feel odd to him; they had storm shelters underground, and the family had dry cold storage under the house on the farm, but the tension coming from the others and his own was unnerving to say the least. He headed to the open seat near the back, away from the others. Then took off his hat and placed it on his knee.
"Casey Severide," he said in his native drawl. Then leaned back and waited for whatever briefing to start, which reminded him of the briefing before a mass casualty event when he was a paramedic/firefighter.
Drew had been in his room when the summons to the War Room reached him. He had taken on the job as an assistant teacher and tutor for the STEM curriculum at Xavier's.
Drew's duties consisted mostly in helping the primary instructor in preparation of lesson plans, grading tests and after school hours tutoring in Mathematics and Physics. He had even conducted one class lecture in Physics just two days ago.
Drew entered the War Room a few minutes after the summons. He gave a nod to those already present, taking note of the stranger and the respectful demeanor. He spoke briefly before taking a seat. “Drew Williams, speedster.”
Joey filtered into the room, settling himself in near the back as well, eyeing the new person warily. Jean introducing new people in team meetings didn't have the greatest track record so far. He tried to think of a joke, but his brain hadn't caught back up with his body after the meditation he'd been trying. "Josiah Martin, Joey, please," he said, slumping down.
This school was so weird. First, there was the holodeck- sorry, Danger Room- and now whatever this was. Having only taught at public schools, Madi didn’t know how private schools worked, but suspected all this was weird even for a private school.
It took her a few minutes to figure out where she was supposed to be, and she tried to enter the room as quietly and surreptitiously as she possibly could, but it still felt like everyone was watching her as she took the least noticeable place at the table and avoided meeting anybody’s gaze.
Kennedy was surprised to find the War Room already full. In the past, she had almost always been the first to arrive, leaving her awkwardly waiting in silence as the rest of the team gradually filtered in. But she had long since learned that the only constant at Xavier's was change, and this generation of X-Men seemed particularly eager and focused. She found the thought reassuring, especially since gatherings in the War Room meant a mission was on the horizon.
While many people preferred the back of the room or any place that kept them away from the center of attention, Kennedy had always been drawn toward the heart of the action. Maintaining her trademark confident posture, she made her way to her usual seat near the front. As she passed, she offered Skjoldr a brief smile before settling into her chair.
She recognized the man standing beside Jean. His name was Sean and he lived on Muir Island with Moira whenever he wasn't occupied with whatever police work he performed. He had attended Jean and Scott's wedding, and after Juggernaut's attack on the school, he had helped fly the younger students to safety. Kennedy paused as the memories surfaced, despite not being all that long ago, those events already felt as though they belonged to another lifetime.
Crossing her legs in one smooth, practiced motion, Kennedy settled in to wait for the remainder of the team. If Sean was here, then whatever had brought everyone together was almost certainly important.
Hayden had been training in the swimming pool when the order came. She quickly dried off with a towel and put her dark tank top and matching shorts on over her bathing suit and made her way to the danger room. When she entered, she took a seat near the back. This room usually meant shit was going to hit the fan and she wanted to be out of the way. There would be plenty of time later to be in the way.
Realizing that her hair was still damp, she waved her fingers and pulled the pool water out. She formed it and to a small water ribbon and absent-mindedly twirled it around her fingers.
Maeve stayed quiet as the others filtered in, letting the room fill around her.
It was easier to watch than to speak. Easier to notice where people sat, who kept close to the walls, who looked at the stranger too long, who already seemed to know him. That sort of thing had always come naturally to her, but lately it felt sharper. Not vampire-sharp anymore. Just Maeve-sharp. Wary in the old way.
Her gaze drifted down to the floor.
She could feel the ground again.
Even here, buried under the mansion’s polished secrets and concrete bones, it was there. Stone, metal, dust in the walls, the deep weight of earth pressing patiently beneath them. Two weeks ago, she’d have given anything for that feeling. Now it caught in her throat, because getting it back hadn’t fixed everything. It only proved something could return and still leave you changed.
Her side pulled when she shifted, a dull reminder under her jumper. Healing, but not gone.
Maeve looked toward Jean, then to the stranger beside her. Whatever this was, it mattered. Jean’s sadness, Kennedy’s recognition, the way the man stood like trouble that already knew the house — all of it had the feel of a story that had started before the rest of them walked in.
Maeve folded her arms loosely and leaned one hip against the table.
“Well,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “this should be cheerful.”
Jennifer looked first to Jean as she always did. Then she looked for Drew, her partner, and Maeve, with whom she'd shared a pretty intense recent experience during the battle with the vampires. She offered a weak smile. "I'm Jennifer," she said to those she didn't know. "Or Dynamo." She smiled slightly.
Gwen walked into the War Room and looked around at the solemn gathered faces; she seemed lost, but she quietly took a seat. "I'm sorry I'm late; I don't think I was invited. I'm Gwen."
TAG ?
“Thank you, everyone, for coming and for your introductions,” Jean said once the team had settled into their seats. “I’d like to introduce you to my friend and ally of the X-Men, Mr. Sean Cassidy. Sean works for the International Criminal Police Organization, otherwise known as Interpol, and, when he's wearing his other uniform, goes by the codename Banshee. There has been a rather unusual situation in Europe that he's received clearance to involve us with, and hopefully we can help resolve the issues at hand.”
Jean stepped away from the table, allowing Sean to continue the briefing. Though there was always a mischievous glint in his eyes, his demeanor today was somber and professional.
“Aye, we've had quite a time with this one,” Sean began. His voice carried the soft lilt of Ireland, subtle but unmistakable. “Several weeks ago, reports started coming in about missing children on a small island called Achill Island, just off the coast of Ireland. One or two children disappearing isn't enough to draw much attention, sad as that is to say. But by the time the sixth child vanished within such a short span of time, the authorities could no longer dismiss it.”
Sean tapped a few buttons on the desk's computer console, and a map of Achill Island appeared on the screens around the room. Even though it was Ireland's largest island, it seemed that removing so many children from such a close knit community would have been difficult, especially once people had begun keeping watch.
“It was during police patrols through the island's mountains and peat bogs that they found this.” He pressed another button, and an image of several massive stones arranged in a circle filled the displays. The stones were ancient and weatherworn, many toppled and draped in moss, their age evident at a glance. “It's what's known as a stone circle. There are hundreds of them scattered across Northwestern Europe, built during the Neolithic period. They're ancient sites, likely created for ceremonial or religious purposes. Finding one here isn't unusual in the slightest.” His expression darkened. “What is unusual is what's sitting in the middle of it.”
Sean clicked another button, and a brief video began to play across the screens. In the center of the stone circle, the air shimmered and rippled in a way that defied explanation. As the videographer cautiously approached, a low hum of energy emanated from the disturbance. The man extended his hand toward the dancing distortion.
The hand vanished from sight.
Sean shook his head, letting out a quiet, incredulous chuckle as the footage ended. “So naturally, S.H.I.E.L.D. got involved once this wee anomaly made itself known,” he said. “They discovered that what you're looking at is a portal, either to another dimension or an alternate reality. The larger problem is that every team they've sent through it has failed to return. Their communications go dark the moment they step across the threshold, and every method they've employed to track or monitor their field agents has failed. At this point, they're entirely at a loss as to how to handle the anomaly. Especially now that there's reason to believe the missing children were taken through that portal as well.”
Sean straightened and regarded the assembled X-Men. As far as he was concerned, most of them still looked like children themselves, which only made the weight of what he was about to ask settle more heavily on his shoulders.
“I managed to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. to allow me to bring in an alternate team to investigate the portal,” he said. “Which is all of you.” He folded his hands behind his back as he continued. “You'll be traveling to Achill Island this afternoon. Your objective is simple enough on paper; enter the portal and explore whatever lies on the other side. Find the missing children, if possible, and determine what's causing the portal to appear. And, if fortune's with us, put an end to it so it doesn't open again.”
Cassidy crossed his arms over his chest before leaning back against the wall behind him. “I've no doubt you'll have questions,” he said, a faint hint of dry humor returning to his voice. “Ask away, and I'll do me best to answer them.”
Casey raised his hand. "Um.. sir, what makes us different than the other teams? Do we know why the other teams failed? And what makes us different? SHIELD has tech and specialists, we are mostly high school just grads with extraordinary abilities." Looking at Sean directly. "I have done a lot of search and rescue for my fire department but never in a place I don't know the majority of the risks.”
“The X-Men are an extraordinary group of individuals with extraordinary and diverse abilities. Sometimes it takes more than soldiers and their guns to solve a problem, especially when that solution has failed time and again.” Sean let out another soft chuckle and glanced over at Jean before continuing. “Hell, Jeanie here stopped the detonation of an atomic bomb in Latin America. Without the X-Men, we'd likely be in the middle of World War III right now.”
Jean waved a hand dismissively through the air, an almost reflexive gesture born from humility. She made no attempt to dispute Sean's claims, but neither did she appear eager to accept the praise.
“And that magnetic disturbance over Antarctica that knocked out radio communications across the globe...” Sean's grin returned as he looked around the room. He had watched the X-Men at work since their earliest days and had seen firsthand what they were capable of accomplishing. “There are people sittin' in this very room who put an end to that global state of emergency.”
“No, lad, I wouldn't be bringin' ye anythin' your team couldn't handle,” the Irishman replied, his tone easy and reassuring despite the confidence in his words. “The X-Men have faced far worse than this and still come out on top. But participation's strictly voluntary. If you're too frightened to go, ye can always stay behind with Jeanie and the children.”
Maeve stopped moving when Sean said the name.
Achill Island.
For a second she didn’t hear the rest. The screens lit up with the map, green and grey and edged by Atlantic water, and the War Room seemed to fall away from her in pieces. Not gone. Still there. Still cold and bright and buried under the mansion. But suddenly there was wind in her head. Salt. Peat smoke. Narrow roads. Wet grass. The pull of a place she had spent years pretending didn’t still have its hand around her heart.
Then the stone circle appeared.
Her fingers closed around the edge of the table.
The room gave the smallest shiver.
Not much. Just enough for the console to click softly and for loose glass on one of the monitors to hum in its frame. Maeve felt it and forced her hand open, palm lifting away from the table as if that would make any difference.
Six children.
Her throat went tight.
Amelia and Saoirse weren’t little anymore. She knew that. Years had passed. They’d have grown tall, grown strange, grown into people she might not recognise if they stood in front of her. But her mind didn’t care about years. It gave her two small girls on a path above the sea, hair whipped into their faces, laughing at something stupid while Maeve pretended not to laugh too.
She had not been there.
The thought landed with no mercy at all.
No. You ran.
Maeve’s jaw set.
She missed half of Casey’s question. Heard bits of Sean’s answer. Soldiers. Guns. X-Men. World War III. It all came through a layer of distance, like someone speaking from the other side of thick glass.
When Sean said staying behind was an option, Maeve looked up.
The colour had drained from her face, leaving her freckles stark across her nose. Her side pulled as she straightened, but she barely seemed to notice.
“Who are they?”
It came out low.
She swallowed once, eyes still on the screen.
“The children. I want their names.”
Only then did she look at Sean properly. Not challenging exactly, but close enough that it could pass for it.
“Their ages. Families. Where they were last seen.” Her hand hovered near the table again, fingers half-curled, not quite touching. “Achill isn’t just some island to me.”
A beat.
“I was born there.”
The floor answered again, a deeper murmur this time, buried under the table and the chairs and everyone’s feet.
Maeve looked back at the stone circle. Moss on old rock. Grey sky in the footage. A place that should have been impossible and familiar at the same time.
“My sisters are there,” she said, quieter.
Then her eyes shifted back to Sean.
“So no. I’m not stayin’ behind.”
Joey remained focused on the screen longer than he meant to, while his brain caught up to what was being said.
Six children.
He heard the rest of it — Achill Island, stone circles, portals, S.H.I.E.L.D. teams gone silent — but his mind caught on those words and the man’s tone, and they rubbed at him like a bramble burr caught in a sock.
One or two children disappearing isn’t enough to draw much attention.
His jaw clenched and unclenched.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” Joey said, quiet enough to not quite speak over anyone, but sharp enough to be an interruption anyway, “but one child ought to draw attention.”
He didn’t look away when he said it. It was easier that way.
Then he heard Maeve.
Whatever else he might have said stayed behind his teeth as his gaze shifted to her. He registered the colour draining from her face. Then he processed it properly: she was born there. Her sisters were still there.
Joey sat up a little straighter.
He looked back to Sean.
“I’d like to know that as well. Names, ages, where they were last seen. Did they vanish from homes, roads, near water, near that stone circle?” He tapped his fingers once against his knee as he thought it through. “Any of ’em known mutants? Sick? Unusual? Gifted? Kids who were alone a lot, or families someone might’ve thought wouldn’t get listened to quick enough?”
He paused, then added, quieter, “Anything that makes a pattern. Or anything that makes somebody think easy target.”
His gaze flicked back to Maeve again, careful this time.
“Maeve, I don’ wanna say somethin’ stupid, and you don’t have to answer this in front of everybody if you don’t want.” He looked toward the screen again, at the old stones and the impossible shimmer between them. “But stone rings, portals, children taken off somewhere they maybe can’t get back from…”
He trailed off for a moment, choosing his words like each one might have teeth.
“This is soundin’ a bit like the old kind of fairy tale. The kind where names ain’t said careless, and offense is a quick road to pain. At risk of soundin’ like an idiot, an’ bein’ rude, are there any stories about that place? Names you don’t say, paths you stay clear of, bargains you don’t make, food you don’t take?” His mouth tightened. “I’d rather sound foolish here than ignorant over there.”
Hayden's jaw dropped at the mention of missing children. She had to agree with the others that that was something of much importance. She moved from her current position to where Maeve was sitting and took a seat next to her.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly to Maeve. Then she turned to the others, "I'm in."
Alaric was getting close to the same page as Joey was already on. "I think Joey is on to something regarding the portal itself. Has anyone determined whether it's technological in origin… or something older? Have telepaths or mystics examined it directly?"
He then looked over to Joey. "Some of those aren't tales where I'm from. In Limbo, names, true names, have strength and power."
Gwen glanced at Alarica thoughtfully and murmured her assent. "They're called 'fairytales' because they warn us about the dangers of fairies. Fairies are cunning and dangerous predators, especially for the unwary and inexperienced. We would do well to learn about the specific fairies that haunt this island before we invade their home to take back what's ours."
Maeve heard Hayden sit beside her more than she saw it.
The apology landed softly, and for a second Maeve didn’t know what to do with it. She gave the smallest nod, not quite looking at her, because if she looked at kindness too directly just then it might do something awful to her face.
Joey’s questions helped. Strange as that was. Names. Places. Patterns. Sensible things. Things with edges. She could hold onto those.
Then he said fairy tale.
The room seemed to pull tighter around that.
Maeve kept staring at the screen, at the old stones damp with moss, at the shimmer sitting in the middle of them like a wound someone had dressed up in light.
“Don’t call yourself an idiot for askin’ that,” she said quietly.
Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
“My mam would’ve liked you for it.”
The words were out before she’d weighed them. Maeve’s mouth closed, and something shifted under her ribs that had nothing to do with the healing wound in her side.
There she is. Little daughter of old soil, remembering at last.
Maeve’s fingers flexed once against her palm.
She looked at Joey then, then Alaric, then Gwen. Her gaze didn’t settle long on any of them.
“They’re not fairies the way people say it now. Not little wings and sweet songs and all that rubbish.” A faint, humourless edge touched her mouth and vanished. “Where I’m from, the old stories didn’t sound like bedtime stories. They sounded like rules.”
The War Room floor gave a low, almost soundless murmur beneath her chair.
Maeve noticed. Of course she did. Her shoulders tightened, but she kept speaking.
“My mother used to talk about Danu. Earth-mother, river-mother, depending who was tellin’ it. The one the Tuatha Dé Danann took their name from. People of Danu.” She swallowed, eyes flicking back to the map of Achill. “Some called them gods. Some called them the old people. Some said they went under the hills when the world changed, into the sídhe mounds, into places that aren’t quite here and aren’t quite gone.”
The stone circle on the screen shimmered faintly as the footage looped.
Maeve’s jaw worked for a moment.
“On Achill, you grew up knowin’ there were places you didn’t mess with. Stones you didn’t move. Paths you didn’t take at night unless you fancied comin’ home wrong, or not comin’ home at all.” She glanced toward Sean, sharper now. “And you didn’t give your name careless. You didn’t eat what was offered. You didn’t make bargains. You didn’t say thank you like it meant you owed them somethin’. You didn’t step into a ring just because it looked empty.”
Her hand drifted toward the edge of the table again, stopped before touching it.
“And you never assumed somethin’ beautiful was kind.”
Good girl. Teach them caution. Teach them awe. Teach them how small they are.
Maeve breathed in slowly through her nose.
For a moment she could hear the Atlantic in her head. Or thought she could. Waves hitting black rock. Wind pressing against the windows of a house she had not seen in years. Amelia’s laugh somewhere behind her. Saoirse shouting after them both to wait.
Then the voice turned softer.
Your sisters know these stories too. I wonder if they remembered in time.
Maeve went very still.
The table gave a sharp little crack.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a thin split running through the polished surface near her hand, like ice giving way under a boot.
She pulled back at once.
“Sorry,” she said, too fast.
Her face had gone pale again, but anger had started to come through now. Not wild. Not yet. Just enough heat to keep her from folding in on herself.
She looked back to Sean.
“I need the names before we go anywhere. The children. All of them.” A beat. “And I need to know if any of them are MacKennas.”
The last word cost her. It showed only for a second, then she buried it.
Her eyes shifted to the portal on the screen.
“If this is what it looks like, then it’s not just a doorway. It’ll have rules. Maybe old ones. Maybe cruel ones. But rules.” Maeve’s voice roughened. “And if children were taken through it, then someone wanted them alive.”
She didn’t say whether that made it better or worse.
It hung there anyway.
Maeve looked around the room, forcing herself to meet enough eyes that she wouldn’t feel like she was only talking to the screen.
“Joey’s right. We don’t go in mockin’ it. We don’t go in shoutin’ our full names into the dark, or acceptin’ food from pretty strangers, or promisin’ anythin’ because someone asks nicely. We don’t split up near rings, hills, water, doorways, mirrors, music, lights, voices…”
She stopped, realising she’d begun listing too much, too quickly. Her mouth tightened.
“Just don’t trust easy,” she finished, quieter. “That’s all.”
Then, after a moment, she looked back at the stones.
“And if anythin’ in there says it knows me, or my family, or what I want…” Her fingers curled into the sleeve of her jumper instead of the table this time. “Don’t let me answer first.”
“Aye, their names and photographs as well…” Sean agreed. He pressed another button on the console, and a collection of images appeared across the screens, neatly arranged black and white photos from the police file with each child's name typed beneath their picture.
“Declan O'Sullivan, age seven; Niamh Gallagher, age fifteen; Ciarán Byrne, age eleven; Siobhán Kelleher, age four.”
Sean hesitated before continuing because the names and faces of the final two missing children confirmed exactly what Maeve had feared.
Amelia MacKenna
Saoirse MacKenna
Her sisters, taken from their home and spirited away into the unknown beyond the veil.
Sean's expression tightened, regret flickering across his features. “I'm sorry, lass. I know this mission cuts far too close to home.”
“Oh, Maeve…” Jean breathed softly, horror and sympathy mingling in her voice. Even as her heart ached for the younger woman, a flash of frustration crossed her mind. Sean should have shared this information with either her or Maeve in private before revealing it to the entire room. But it was too late now, the damage had been done and the X-Men were given an even greater reason to proceed with this offered mission.
Maeve didn’t move when the first four names appeared.
She looked at each face because she had asked for them, and because looking away felt like cowardice. Declan. Niamh. Ciarán. Siobhán. Children she didn’t know and still somehow did, because Achill was small enough that names travelled through walls, across roads, over cups of tea.
Then the last two photographs came up.
The air went out of her.
Not like a gasp. Nothing so loud. Her face simply changed, all the colour draining from it as if someone had reached inside and turned the blood cold.
For a second she was not in the War Room. She was on a path above the sea with two little girls running ahead of her, one shouting back because Maeve was too slow, the other laughing so hard she nearly tripped over her own feet.
Then Jean said her name.
Maeve blinked.
The floor cracked beneath her chair.
It wasn’t violent, not at first. Just a sharp little sound under the table, followed by a thin line splitting through the concrete between her boots. Dust lifted from the seam and hung there, trembling in the air like it didn’t know whether to fall or obey.
Your blood calls, little earth-heart. Will you run from them too?
Maeve’s hand gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles went white.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
It wasn’t clear who she meant.
The crack widened another inch.
Maeve stared at her sisters’ photographs, lips parted, eyes wet but furious with herself for it.
“How long?” she asked, voice barely holding. “How long have they been gone?”
“What the hell, Maeve!?” Kennedy shot to her feet as the crack in the floor appeared and widened beneath Maeve. “You can’t just pop off like that. It’s what got you captured in Genosha, and if you aren’t careful you could get someone killed. And don’t think we can’t all hear you muttering to yourself like some kind of nut job.”
The comment was harsh, but there was truth buried beneath the sting. A lack of control was one of the greatest fears people had about mutants, and mastering one's abilities was a skill every student at Xavier’s was expected to learn. A clear head and disciplined control were essential for anyone who hoped to go into the field.
Jean reached out and rested a hand on Maeve’s shoulder. The touch was grounding, accompanied by a gentle brush of telepathic calm. ~* ‘Remember to breathe and focus. You are the master of yourself and your abilities.’ *~
“Ah...” Sean rubbed the back of his neck uneasily as he watched the exchange unfold. Working with teenagers had never been his strong suit, and he was more than happy to steer the conversation back toward the mission. “The first child was taken two months ago, and the most recent were your sisters, just two days ago. None of the missing children were known mutants, but askin’ a family that question these days is liable to put a target on their backs. So it’s a possibility, but nothing's been confirmed.”
He folded his arms and glanced around the table. “There don’t seem to be any connectin’ factors between them, other than that they all come from long established families that have lived on the island for generations. Every one of them was taken at night and from their own home. No signs of a struggle, no evidence of forced entry, not a shout of conflict. They were simply plucked from their beds right under their parents’ noses.”
“As for where the portal comes from...” Sean continued, “the tests have been inconclusive. S.H.I.E.L.D. brought in a team of scientists and specialists, and they classified it as a Thaumaturgic Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Now, that sounds mighty impressive, but it doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he nodded toward Jean. “I even asked the best telepath I know to try locatin’ our away teams. Even with Cerebro, she couldn’t pick up a trace of them.”
The smirk faded as he returned to the briefing. “Technology doesn’t seem to survive passin’ through the portal. There’s somethin’ about the dimensional boundary that interferes with it. The scientists reckon it generates what they call a quantum decoherence cascade, which renders advanced electronics inoperable during transit. At the same time, exposure to extradimensional flux causes an energetic material deactivation effect, permanently neutralizin’ propellants, explosives, and other high-energy compounds.”
Sean spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “The short version is that modern technology and most conventional weapons are useless on the other side of that aperture.”
“As for mystics,” the Irishman continued with a shrug, “we don’t exactly have a rolodex full of sorcerers and hedge wizards to call upon. But when I put all the pieces together, it led me to one conclusion. The X-Men are our best chance of gettin’ through that portal and figurin’ out what’s happened. Mutants aren’t rendered helpless once they cross over.”
“I’m placing Alaric in command of this mission,” Jean announced, her gaze sweeping across the team gathered around the table. “He was raised in, and learned to survive within, an alternate dimension steeped in hostile magic and the occult. His experience, instincts, and understanding of that kind of environment make him an invaluable asset.”
Jean paused, letting the weight of her decision settle over the room. “Especially because I won’t be able to provide telepathic communication or support once you cross through the portal. You’ll need a leader on the other side, and I’m confident Alaric is the right choice.”
Kennedy’s words hit harder than the crack in the floor.
Maeve’s head snapped towards her, colour still gone from her face, eyes wet and sharp and humiliated all at once. For a second it looked as if she might bite back. She wanted to. The anger came up hot, grateful for somewhere to go, because anger was easier than the two black and white photographs still burning on the screens.
Nut job.
Her mouth opened.
Then Jean’s hand settled on her shoulder.
The touch did not fix anything. It didn’t make the room less full or her sisters less gone. But it gave Maeve one steady point to hold onto, and for a moment that was enough. She drew in a breath through her nose, shaky and thin, and felt the floor beneath her answer too quickly.
No.
Not here.
Not again.
The crack stopped widening.
Dust drifted down into the split. The low pressure under the table eased, stone settling back into itself by inches as Maeve forced her fingers open and laid both hands flat against her thighs instead.
There now. See how they look at you. Mad girl. Broken girl. Dangerous girl.
Maeve didn’t answer.
Not out loud.
She kept her eyes on Sean as he spoke, though every word seemed to find somewhere tender to land. Two days. Amelia and Saoirse had been gone two days. Taken from their beds. No struggle. No warning. Just there one night and gone by morning, like the island itself had swallowed them while Maeve sat an ocean away trying to pretend she could build a life without looking back.
Her jaw tightened until it hurt.
When Jean named Alaric as mission lead, Maeve looked at him. Really looked. There was resistance in her at first, the ugly little spark of it, because this was Achill and they were her sisters and some raw part of her wanted to claw command out of the air by sheer grief alone.
But grief was not a plan.
She knew that much.
Maeve swallowed, then gave Alaric a small nod. Not warm. Not easy. But real.
“Fine,” she said, her voice rougher than before.
Her gaze flicked back to the photographs.
“But I’m goin’.”
There was no performance in it. No dramatic lift of the chin. She sounded tired, frightened, and certain.
“I know I’m close to it. I know that makes me a risk.” The words scraped a bit on the way out, especially with Kennedy’s accusation still hanging there. Maeve didn’t look at her. “But I know Achill. I know the stories. I know the places people avoid and the things they pretend they don’t believe in until something knocks at the door.”
Her fingers curled once against her knees, then relaxed again.
“And they’re my sisters.”
That was all she could manage for a second.
The floor stayed still.
Maeve looked at Jean, then Sean, then finally Alaric.
“I’ll follow orders,” she said. “But don’t ask me to stay behind. Not for this.”
"We wouldn't," Jennifer said, "but we're right with you."
"Yeah, Maeve," Hayden said, echoing Jennifer. "We're a team. And teams support each other."
"Acknowledging your weakness does not diminish you, Maeve," said Alaric. "But ignoring it would. With that said, if this realm can turn grief or lack of control or weakness against us, we must be on our guards."
He paused and looked at Maeve for a moment. "And since it has already been brought up, when you speak under your breath, are those your thoughts alone or are you speaking to someone else? In my experience, people rarely answer voices no one else can hear without reason."
Jennifer’s words should have helped.
Hayden’s too.
They did, in a way. Maeve heard them, and something in her chest twisted hard enough that she had to look down at her hands instead of at either of them. Right with you. A team. Support each other. Good words. Dangerous words, if you let yourself need them.
Then Alaric asked his question.
Maeve went still.
Not angry this time. Cornered.
For a second she was back on the docks in New York, salt in the air, stone ripping through concrete, men screaming, girls running, her own body shaking so hard she could barely stand. Then the silence after. The horrible, stunned silence.
And the voice.
Well done.
She had told herself it was shock. Trauma. Her own head trying to survive what she had done. For a long time, that had been easier than believing anything else.
Tell them. Go on. Watch their faces change. Watch your friends become wardens.
Maeve’s jaw tightened.
They already think you are cracked, little earth-heart. Dangerous. Unstable. A thing to be handled gently until it bites.
She didn’t answer.
Not out loud.
But the words had already opened something in her head too brightly, and she felt Jean catch the edge of it. Not a hand digging in. Just the soft awareness of someone standing near a door Maeve had forgotten to shut.
Maeve looked at Alaric, then down at the crack in the floor.
“There’s a voice,” she said.
The room seemed to get smaller around the words.
She hated how exposed it sounded. Hated that Kennedy’s “nut job” was still sitting there in the air, waiting to be proved right.
“I don’t mean I’m mutterin’ to myself for fun.” Her mouth pulled tight, almost a grimace. “I mean there’s a voice. A woman’s voice. Not all the time. Mostly when I’m scared, or angry, or when somethin’ gets too close.”
She swallowed.
“It started after I came to America. After the docks. First time I remember it proper, anyway. Back then I thought it was just… shock. My head bein’ ugly with me.”
Her eyes flicked once to Jean, then away again.
“It got louder after Club Blood.”
There it was. Small and awful.
Maeve rubbed her thumb against the cuff of her sleeve, hard enough to drag the fabric out of shape.
“It pushes. That’s what it does. Pushes at things I already feel.” Her voice roughened. “Anger. Guilt. Fear. It wants me to open doors I know I shouldn’t. Wants me to say yes to things before I’ve had time to think.”
I want you honest. There is a difference.
Maeve went quiet for half a beat.
Then she made herself look at Alaric again.
“I don’t know who she is.”
Her gaze shifted to the photographs of Amelia and Saoirse on the screen.
“But I think she knows Achill.”
Joey's fingers had gone still against his knee.
It took a few moments before he could trust himself to say anything. Amelia and Saoirse MacKenna were staring at him from black and white, and Maeve.... Blindsiding her, splitting her open in front of a whole room and expecting her to keep taking notes. That was a real dick move in his book. He tried to focus.
Two days. Taken from beds. No struggle, no shouting, and no broken doors or windows.
That was worse, somehow. He could understand claws, blood, teeth, and things coming out of the dark. But children vanishing quiet from their own homes, right under the noses of people who loved them...That was meaner. That was something that knew exactly where safety was supposed to live, and decided to violate it.
Then Kennedy spoke.
Nut job.
Joey's jaw tightened. He looked at the crack in the floor, then at Maeve's hands, then back to Kennedy, and how he felt himself. His voice came out low, not loud, and with more than a little strain. "Calling people crazy when their family's abducted and somethin's tryin' to get hooks in their head ain't helpin," he said. If it tasted a little too personal, well, he wasn't going to look away first anyway, but that was the part he didn't like.
Hooks. The voice. The way Maeve was listing off rules too fast, like if she stopped talking, the thing behind her might start talking instead. The way she had said not to let her answer first. Joey knew a thing or two about parts of yourself that answered quicker than your better judgment. A voice wasn't the same as his own instincts. He knew that, but it was close enough to make him nervous.
He forced himself back to Sean because, honestly, he felt like the kindest thing he could do would be to force things back on track to planning. "So, they were taken from homes," he recapped. "At night. No struggle. Long-settled families. No known mutations, but no one's askin'." He swallowed. "That sounds an awful lot like something that had permission to cross a threshold, or knew a way around needing it."
He flicked his eyes to Maeve first, then Alaric. "I don't know shit about magic or much about Irish stories, but where I'm from, we have stories like this, and folks know they'd best pay attention. And if whatever's there's talking in folks' heads and picking," he stopped for a moment. "Still don't matter, I guess. I ain't leavin' none of them kids over there if we can do somethin' about it. MacKenna or otherwise."
“I wish you'd said something to me sooner, Maeve,” Jean said, a trace of hurt softening her voice. As a telepath, she could have plucked intimate secrets and unspoken concerns from someone's mind with ease, but she never did so without permission. Jean had always wanted her students to trust her, never fear her. Still, she was no stranger to a distant voice, to whisper that wasn’t entirely her own, and she recognized the burden Maeve had been carrying. “I could have helped you, if you'd let me in.”
Her gaze shifted to Kennedy, who stood her ground despite the tension her words had stirred. The huntress buried beneath the polished exterior of the Boston born socialite had a habit of hardening her resolve until compassion gave way to blunt honesty. Her concerns weren't without merit, but her delivery often left something to be desired.
“If your teammates trust you and are willing to support you,” Jean continued, returning her attention to Maeve, “then I will allow you to embark on this mission.”
She let her eyes travel around the room. Anticipation, worry, determination, confusion, and uncertainty mingled together, creating a palpable tension among the assembled team.
“You are stronger together than any of you could ever be alone. When one person stumbles, the rest help them back to their feet.” A faint smile touched Jean’s lips. “That's what a family does for one another.”
“I don't expect any of you to be perfect,” Jean said, her eyes lingering on Kennedy.
“But I do expect you to ask for help when you are struggling.” Her gaze shifted to Maeve.
“And I know the rest of you will answer when that call comes.” The room fell quiet as Jean’s words settled over them.
“You have as much information as Sean can provide, and this mission comes with its own unique complications. The Blackbird will depart in two hours time for Achill Island, where S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel will escort you to the portal between the standing stones.”
Jean pressed a button on the conference table, and the displays around the War Room immediately flickered to black. “Plan on bringing enough supplies for an extended stay in an unknown environment. Everything in the Ready Room and the rest of the mansion is at your disposal.”
Jean rose from her chair and looked around the room one final time. “Unless there are any final questions,” she said, “you are dismissed.”
Drew rose from his seat. He glanced at Maeve for a moment sitting two seats down on the other side of Jennifer. "Hey, we're going to get them back. All of them."
Madi had so many questions, but none of them were to do with the task at hand. And she didn’t know how to put them into words anyway. No matter- children were in danger. The mothering instinct inherent in most women- and men, too, for that matter- had flared and wouldn’t let her back away from this one. Though she still felt like an outsider, she would go with this team and try to fit in as best as she could.
Maeve didn’t look at Jean straight away.
That was the bit that got under her skin. Not Kennedy’s sharpness. Not even the way the room had gone quiet around her. Jean saying she wished Maeve had told her sooner landed somewhere much worse, because there was no cruelty in it. Just hurt.
Maeve stared down at her hands.
She had thought about telling her. More than once. Standing outside Jean’s office. Sitting in the greenhouse with soil under her nails. Lying awake after Club Blood with the lights off and her own thoughts too loud. Every time, the words had jammed up behind her teeth.
Where she came from, you got up. You carried on. You didn’t make yourself another person’s burden unless there was blood on the floor and no other choice.
And maybe, some ugly part of her admitted, she hadn’t wanted Jean to look at her differently.
There. See how easily love becomes disappointment.
Maeve shut her eyes for half a second.
Not now.
When she opened them again, she gave Jean the smallest nod. It wasn’t enough for everything she should have said, but it was all she could manage in front of the room.
“I know,” she said quietly.
Her voice caught, so she stopped there.
Drew spoke from two seats down, and Maeve glanced at him. We’re going to get them back. All of them.
She wanted to believe him so badly it almost hurt.
Maeve swallowed, looked back at the blank screens where her sisters’ faces had been, and nodded once.
“We are,” she said.
Casey stood quietly had listened to everything said. Trying not to judge people before he truly knew them. The lore was massive, and he had no idea about most of it. He was familiar with Native American lore, being from the Dakotas. He looked at his teammates, making a silent vow to try to bring everyone home in one piece. His mind then shifted to supplies, rope, harness, food, tent, clothing, medical supplies, light cooking gear, and headlamps. He then looked to Alaric, "Do you want us to pack solo, or you want to spread the gear among us? I can create a list of stuff we used for S&R."
"Compile the list of what you deem essential and distribute the load across the team," said Alaric. "But account for our abilities before burdening us with excess weight. There are necessities we don't need to carry if one among us can reliably provide them. Hayden, for example, can eliminate our need to transport water. Pack for deprivation, exposure, and separation. Assume nothing beyond the portal will be hospitable."
“It sounds like you have a solid plan for the preparations.” Jean nodded approvingly, pleased to see Casey's experience already proving valuable and Alaric naturally stepping into a leadership role as he delegated responsibilities.
“Camping,” Kennedy grumbled under her breath. “Why does it always have to be camping?” Without waiting for a response, she slipped out of the War Room to prepare for the journey ahead. She knew her powers had limited tactical applications outside of carefully placed explosions, and if she wanted to contribute more consistently in the field, she'd need to rely on skill as much as ability. That meant stocking her quiver with enough arrows to last through whatever awaited them in the wilderness.
“And remember,” Jean added as she rose from her chair, “my door is always open if any of you need anything, not just as your headmistress, but on a personal level as well.”
She made her way to the back of the War Room, joining Sean. The Irishman gave the assembled X-Men one last thoughtful glance, his expression carrying the quiet confidence of someone who had seen countless teams depart on dangerous assignments. Satisfied, he leaned toward Jean, and the two resumed their private conversation as the room steadily emptied.
With assignments given and preparations underway, the X-Men dispersed throughout the mansion. Some gathered equipment, others packed supplies, while a few took quiet moments to steel themselves for the journey ahead. Before long, the War Room had fallen silent. Beyond the walls of Xavier's, a strange unknown waited, cloaked in mystery and what could only be described as magic. Whatever darkness had taken the missing children, the X-Men were now committed to finding them, no matter where the trail led.
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