X-Academy, page 1
part #4 of Marvel Xavier's Institute Series
School of X
The Phoenix was gone, as were Cyclops and Charles Xavier.
Yet, Magneto was still there.
Floating above us, sporting his original uniform and helmet, he hovered like a purple and scarlet titan over the cracked concrete. Magneto gestured and half the army vehicles left the ground, levitating on imperceptible magnetic waves to join him high above the installation. He frowned at the scrambling human soldiers, not with disappointment, as he would during my later interrogation, but with anger and mistrust, hate and arrogance. Magneto radiated an air of earned superiority. This version was no friend to humanity – this was the O.G. Master of Magnetism, proud advocate for Homo superior rights and leader of the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.
FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING
VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist
Associate Editor, Special Projects: Caitlin O’Connell
Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeremy West
VP, Licensed Publishing: Sven Larsen
SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel
Editor in Chief: C B Cebulski
Special Thanks to Jordan D. White
© 2021 MARVEL
First published by Aconyte Books in 2021
ISBN 978 1 83908 106 4
Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 107 1
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover art by Heri Irawan
Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA
ACONYTE BOOKS
An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd
Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre
North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK
aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks
Your Fifteen Minutes
Jaleigh Johnson
“I thought we were going to watch a Christmas movie,” Benjamin Deeds complained as the television lit up the dark common room with the fiery explosion at the top of the Nakatomi building, framing a panicked John McClane leaping to safety.
“This is a Christmas movie,” Fabio Medina argued as he settled into an ancient, weary beanbag chair that was more bag than beans, cradling a plate of pepperoni and mushroom pizza slices. “It transcends.”
That profound observation made him the target of multiple groans and several popcorn missiles from Eva Bell, who was draped on the sagging couch next to Celeste of the Stepford Cuckoos. Her sisters, Irma and Phoebe, were sitting on the floor next to Benjamin in a puddle of blankets and pillows. Christopher Muse and Avery Torres had grabbed the faded paisley armchairs that everyone jokingly referred to as “mezzanine seating” near the back of the room, and David Bond lounged on the floor next to Fabio, eating pizza with one hand and plugging a finger-sized hole in the beanbag chair to keep it from shedding its contents all over the food.
OK, so they weren’t exactly living the dream, but the room was still theirs for the night.
Fabio lived for movie night. He no longer remembered whose idea it was, but over the past several months, it had become a ritual for the students to huddle around the television on Sunday evenings to watch a selection of movies from a cobbled together donation box assembled by the students and faculty. The only rules were: everyone took turns picking the movies, and no network television or real-world news allowed. They all had enough to deal with during the week with classes, training sessions, and all the worries and fears that came alongside being one of the few groups of mutants left in the world. Sunday nights were a night to escape and cut loose.
“Fabio’s got a point, though,” Benjamin said as the credits rolled a few minutes later. “This film redefined what makes a movie hero.”
David chuckled skeptically. “It’s popular, but it’s not like it reinvented the wheel or anything.”
“What’s your ideal movie hero then?” Fabio challenged. Movie debates were almost as much fun as the movies themselves.
“They have to be relatable,” Avery said, balancing her sketchbook on her updrawn knees while she reached for another fistful of popcorn.
“Agreed, but there’s something to be said for larger-than-life qualities,” Christopher put in, leaning back in his chair. “Movie heroes drop the best one-liners at the perfect moment. They get to walk away from the fiery explosion looking all kinds of cool. The rest of us wish we could handle a crisis like they do.”
And they’re loved by everyone in the end, Fabio thought, as he wiped his fingers on a paper towel. Not that he needed to be a John McClane out there saving the world. He had a soft spot for other movie leads, too – the hard-boiled detectives and spies – the smooth characters who could talk everyone in circles with a twinkle in their eyes.
He wouldn’t mind if the real world was a bit more like the movies. In the movie version of his life, he would have a codename that wasn’t susceptible to the obvious jokes that came with being a mutant called Goldballs. In the movie version of his life, his powers would come with cool laser sounds – pew! pew! pew! – and not poink!
He sighed. Why was one of those sounds so cool, while the other one made people giggle uncontrollably?
It wasn’t like he didn’t know who he was in this great cinema of life. He was well aware he was the sidekick, the comic relief, the butt of the joke. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t also end up being the one sacrificed to advance the plot in some way. That was probably the best he could hope for, and he’d accepted it.
Sort of.
But to be the hero just once, to have his fifteen minutes of fame and glory… now that would be awesome.
The others were arguing over the next movie. Celeste said, “It’s my turn to pick.”
“Then pick,” Benjamin said. “It has to be a movie.”
“I know that.” Celeste rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying, what if we mixed it up one of these nights? Did karaoke? It could be fun.”
Next to her, Eva nodded enthusiastically, but Irma and Phoebe raised their hands in a simultaneous thumbs-down gesture. Seeing this, Celeste flushed and glared at the pair of them.
That was weird. Fabio couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them at odds. Or sitting so far apart. Something else was different, too. It took him a minute, but then he realized Irma had dyed her hair black, in sharp contrast to the others’ blonde look. He started to say something about it, but abruptly the word “karaoke” penetrated his pizza-fogged brain.
“Hold on.” He sat up in the beanbag chair with a loud crinkling of vinyl. “Benjamin’s right, this is movie night. Karaoke is against the rules.” And the laws of nature.
Celeste opened her mouth to argue, but seeing that Eva was her only ally, she deflated and burrowed into the couch cushions. “It was just a suggestion,” she mumbled. “I don’t really care what we watch.” There was a glint of moisture on her cheek that might have been a tear, but she quickly turned her face away from the rest of them before Fabio could be sure.
He hoped he hadn’t upset her by shooting her down. Maybe he’d been a little harsh, but it was karaoke. The thought of getting up in front of everyone and singing made the pizza churn in his stomach.
Movie heroes never had those kinds of problems, either.
“Hate to break it to everyone, but we probably shouldn’t start another movie tonight,” Christopher said, pointing to the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. “Early training session tomorrow in the Danger Room, remember?”
There was a chorus of groans as one by one the students peeled themselves out of their chairs and nests of blankets to start cleaning up the food. It looked like a minor storm had blown through the room, but they eventually sorted it out.
As Fabio carried a stack of greasy plates to the garbage cans in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing. Despite their grumbling, he had no doubt that tomorrow everyone would get a chance to shine somehow in their training session. He was scheduled to go first thing with the Stepford triplets, whose psychic powers were so strong, he knew he’d barely have to try in order to receive a passing grade. He supposed he should have been happy about that, but it just reinforced the role he’d been assigned in his own life.
Always the sidekick, never the hero.
•••
He’d fallen asleep at his desk again.
Any minute now, Magneto was going to yell at him and everyone in the classroom would laugh. Not cruelly, just… you know, there goes Fabio, sleeping in class again, ha ha, of course.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and gave him a teeth-rattling shake.
“Medina!”
“Present!” He jerked his head up, looking blearily around the classroom. Had the lights dimmed while he slept? Everything looked gray and dull – more so than usual – almost as if the entire room had been painted in black and white.
Wait a minute.
He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Shut. Open. Everything was in black and white. And he wasn’t sitting in a classroom. He was slumped behind an old wooden desk in a cluttered office that looked like it belonged in a different century. Big metal filing cabinets lined one wall, and a small couch was pushed up against another wall near the door. The desk’s surface was littered with papers and dirty coffee cups. An old rotary telephone sat near his right elbow.
He wasn’t alone in the room.
Three women stood in front of the desk. They were identical, from their shoulder-length hair to the style of their skirts, and all three of them wore soaring high heels that looked terribly uncomfortable. The one nearest him had her hand on his shoulder. She’d been the voice he’d heard, the one who’d woken him. That voice was familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it.
“What’s going on?” he asked around a huge yawn. Was he still dreaming? He dug his fingernails into his palm until it hurt. Nope, not a dream.
“Detective Medina,” the woman who’d woken him said impatiently. “We had an appointment. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. He looked at the other two women for a hint, but they only stared at him expectantly.
“I… yes, our… appointment. Of course.” Nope, he had nothing. His underarms were damp with sweat. What was he doing here? Where was here? Who was he again?
He felt like he should have the answer to at least one of those questions. The fact that he was hazy on all three threatened to send him into panic mode. His gaze swung wildly around the room, looking for something to help him out. The office door had a pane of glass set into its top half, and on the outside, there was a sign. It was backwards from his point of view, but he managed to read it anyway.
Medina Investigations.
“Detective Medina?” the woman said again, a hint of desperation in her voice.
Suddenly, a sense of wellbeing washed over him, like a cool breeze on a hot day. Medina turned his head. There was a small window in the wall to his right. He took in his faint reflection in the glass. He was dressed in a weathered trench coat and an old but stylish fedora.
That’s right. He was Detective Medina of Medina Investigations. This was his office.
When he looked back at the women, he gave them an easy smile. “Don’t worry, I never forget an appointment.”
The woman who’d woken him straightened up, looking more confident now. “My name is Celeste, and these are my sisters, Irma and Phoebe.”
Again, that sense of familiarity washed over Medina, those names bouncing around inside his head like balls going poink poink poink. Celeste, Irma, Phoebe. But they’d never met before. Had they?
“What can I do for you?” he asked, getting back on track.
“Detective Medina, I won’t waste your time. I just need fifteen minutes to tell our story.” Celeste paced the small office in agitation, her hands clasped in front of her. “My sisters and I were on expedition in the Amazon, where we discovered an ancient treasure.” She nodded to Irma, who reached inside a large bag she had propped against her hip. She pulled out an object roughly the size of an ostrich egg.
“I assume you’ve heard the legend of the Golden Sphere,” Irma said as she put the object on his desk.
He laid his hands on the smooth, cool surface, fighting back another rush of familiarity. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone knows the legend of the Golden Sphere.”
Right?
“Word got around that we found it,” Phoebe said, coming over to the desk and taking the sphere out of his hands. She gave it back to Irma, who slipped it carefully into the bag. “Now there are some very bad people chasing us.”
“What sort of ‘bad people’ are we talking about?” Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his chair.
“The usual,” Celeste said. She stopped pacing and perched on the edge of his desk, as if to take the weight off her high heels. Really, those shoes looked awfully uncomfortable. “Thieves, criminals – they all want the sphere for themselves. We need protection until we can decide what to do with it.”
“All right, I’ll take your case,” he found himself saying without stopping to think about it, “but my protection fees are steep.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on the desktop. “Now, first things first. Do you know if you were followed here?”
Celeste shook her head firmly. “We kept a close eye out,” she said. “No one saw–”
She was interrupted by the loud rat tat tat of gunshots shattering the window.
“Get down!” Medina shoved his chair back, and all four of them hit the floor as more gunshots rang out in the small office.
“They found us!” Celeste shouted, panic rising in her voice as she crouched next to her sisters. She threw her arms protectively over the pair of them, shielding them with her body.
Medina fumbled in his bottommost desk drawer for the revolver stashed there. He army-crawled across the floor to the door. “Follow me and stay low!”
They ran down a narrow hallway to the back door of the building, which spilled onto a dimly lit alley. He herded the sisters behind him, leading the way with gun drawn, watching the inky shadows for any signs of movement. There was no sound except the huffs of their breathing. The air was crisp with late autumn cold.
Rounding the corner of the building, he halted and cursed.
The street dead-ended in a brick wall.
Wait, that didn’t make any sense. He’d gone this way a hundred times to get to his car. It should be right there.
Gravel crunched behind them. Medina whirled to see a trio of figures emerging from the shadows at the other end of the alley. Their faces were obscured, but he could clearly see the guns they held.
Irma and Phoebe stepped forward, shielding their sister. Medina raised his own weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. Three sharp pistol cracks rang out, and a dull pain punched Medina in the shoulder. Next to him, Irma and Phoebe dropped to their knees, spots of blood darkening the fronts of their blouses.
“No!” Celeste screamed, but Medina couldn’t get to her. His world had gone hazy and soft, and he was sinking into darkness.
•••
He was staring up at the stars. Ursa Major winked at him as if it knew something he didn’t. A cold wind pushed through the thin fabric of his bodysuit.
Wait, what?
He sat up, his ears ringing faintly as he stared down at himself. He was dressed all in black, a mask covering his face. Glancing around, he realized he sat on the roof of an extremely tall building. A voice called out from behind him.
“Medina, get over here! The countdown clock is at fifteen minutes!”
Right, the bomb.
He stood on legs that were a little wobbly. He touched his shoulder, rubbing away a faint ache. What had he just been doing?
“Medina!”
He turned. Celeste, Irma, and Phoebe, wearing identical black bodysuits, were crouched around a bulky metal cylinder with a countdown clock in its center. Its red digital numbers tracked how much time was left before they were all blown to bits. Less than fifteen minutes now. A panel hung open in the cylinder’s bottom, wires spilling out like entrails. Celeste was frantically separating them, trying to find the ones they could splice to disarm the bomb.
He sprinted over to the group, joining Celeste in the mess of wires. The city’s biggest crime boss had discovered Medina’s elite team of assassins’ headquarters in the building below. They’d planted the bomb, and now if he didn’t disarm the device, the explosives would level the building and five city blocks.
They were running out of time.
