Class | X-men- First

"Boys become men who fire missiles," Erik replied, his voice cold as the deep ocean. He tore the helicopter's door off its hinges and dove into the water.

"They were scared. We can make them understand."

Charles, bleeding in the sand, looked up. He saw his sister choosing the path of rebellion. He saw his brother choosing the path of vengeance. And he realized the truth of the name the newspapers had already given them. X-men- First Class

Charles Xavier closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. Not to fight. But to find the next scared, lonely mutant. The next girl who couldn't touch anyone without killing them. The next boy who saw colors in sounds.

They trained on a secluded beach. In the mornings, Charles taught them philosophy and control. "Anger is a jet of steam," he'd say. "You can let it blow the lid off, or you can use it to power a locomotive." In the afternoons, Erik taught them the hard edge. "Survival," he'd say, as he made a satellite dish buckle with a flick of his wrist, "is not a philosophy. It is a reflex." "Boys become men who fire missiles," Erik replied,

"Peace was never an option, old friend. But I will try not to kill you."

Sebastian Shaw was the ghost at their feast. A mutant who fed on kinetic energy and wore a helmet that made him invisible to Charles’s telepathy. Ten years ago, in a Nazi-occupied office, Shaw had shot Erik’s mother. That single bullet didn't just kill a woman; it forged a weapon. Erik had spent a decade pulling that bullet—and a thousand other pieces of metal—with his rage. We can make them understand

X-Men.