Just as the X-Men concentrated their fire to finish off the incoming Helicarrier, new activity stirred on the ship's deck. From a distance, countless black specks—like a swarm of locusts—poured out from the carrier, blotting out the sky as they descended on the X-Men.
Purple exoshells wrapped around intricate steel frames. A massive turbine vent spun in their chests. Twin jet thrusters on their shoulders kept them agile in flight. Their right arms housed six-barrel Gatling cannons; their left arms carried single-shot rocket launchers. Layer upon layer of metal plating concealed even more hidden weapons. Two glowing yellow eyes gleamed coldly beneath reinforced glass visors. Each machine stood a towering four to five meters tall.
The Mark I Sentinel robots—Trask Industries' infamous anti-mutant units—had arrived.
And there weren't dozens.
There were thousands.
Beast, having survived the Sentinel War of 1973, instantly recognized these mechanical nightmares. But something was wrong. These weren't the same Mark I units.
Every Sentinel bore a faintly glowing blue arc reactor embedded near its chest.
Anyone who had ever watched television knew what that meant—Tony Stark's miniature arc reactor, the iconic power source of the Iron Man suits.
Anything running on an arc reactor—no matter how crudely modified—outclassed every robot built by traditional military contractors. These Sentinels were no longer prototypes.
They were upgraded war machines.
It became clear that the "few hundred units" Trask previously claimed to have deployed in New York had been a lie—just another trick to keep Nick Fury satisfied while hiding their real numbers. No businessman would ever willingly give up all his assets.
But whoever controlled Trask now… clearly tolerated no deception.
The swarm of Sentinels descended with terrifying momentum. The X-Men instantly redirected their fire from the Helicarrier toward the incoming robots. Multi-colored beams, plasma, lightning, and concussive blasts tore through the first wave, shredding a dozen Sentinels into scrap metal.
But a dozen meant nothing to an army of nearly a thousand.
Within seconds, the machines—designed explicitly to counter mutant abilities—had closed the distance. Their Gatling cannons lit up, spitting a storm of metal that blotted out the air itself.
"Fall back!" Cyclops shouted when he realized the Sentinels' firepower dwarfed theirs. He gathered the outdoor X-Men and retreated into the academy.
But the Sentinels didn't hesitate. Their jet thrusters shifted direction, sending them crashing through windows and walls. They forced their way straight into the school buildings, raining bullets down hallways that were never meant to be war zones.
The elegant English-style manor—once a symbol of learning and peace—was reduced to chaos.
Wooden floors shattered into splinters.
Shelves of textbooks exploded into drifting clouds of paper.
Blackboards were perforated beyond recognition.
Stone balconies crumbled into rubble.
Most students had already fled to the secret underground X-Men base. Terrified and untrained, they huddled in the metallic refuge while explosions made the heavy steel doors tremble violently.
Then—
the blast door was forced open.
But what entered was not a wave of fire or a rain of bullets.
It was Marcus, tall and composed, carrying the unconscious Jean Grey in his arms.
Ignoring the frightened students, he gently laid Jean onto a medical bed. Then he grabbed a thick metal plate, wrapped it in his biomaterial, and reshaped it. When he lifted it up again, it had become a circular shield—reminiscent of Captain America's—but bearing not stars and stripes.
Instead, a single bold X.
"You all just want to survive, is that it?" Marcus asked the hundreds of young mutants, his gaze sharp. Standing at the entrance with his X-shield, he continued, voice cold:
"Do you know why humans don't respect you? Because you haven't earned it. You have incredible gifts, yet you hide and wait for others to protect you instead of protecting yourselves. You talk about unity, but never act on it. Tell me—how do you expect anyone to respect mutants like that?"
A student stammered, "But… Cyclops told us to stay here—"
"To wait here and die?" Marcus cut him off. He pointed toward the chaos outside. "Open your eyes. Look at what humans have forced us into! If Cyclops could solve everything, why would he train you to master your powers? Because one day you'll have to defend yourselves—and your people. Maybe it's a bit early for that day. But you cannot run forever. If humans want war… then we must answer with war."
Another student spoke up hesitantly, "But Professor Xavier taught us to coexist peacefully with humans. Maybe we should talk to them—"
Marcus grabbed the student by the collar and lifted him effortlessly like a child.
"Listen to me. When someone is stepping on your neck, I don't have time to debate philosophy with you. A diplomat from my country once said, 'What cannot be won on the battlefield will never be gained at the negotiating table.' Before we talk peace, we need to show humans why mutants deserve their respect."
He threw the student down—not cruelly, but firmly—and raised his shield.
"Humans are slaughtering our kind. They are trying to enslave us, turning mutants into lab rats for their technology. I've been through it myself—you don't want to know how it feels. I refuse to let it happen again. If you want to live like livestock, stay here and wait to die. As for me—"
Marcus turned and stepped directly into the roaring gunfire outside.
The flames illuminated his silhouette, steady and unyielding.
To the young mutants watching him go, he looked unmistakably like—
a hero.