Ororo Monroe drifted in her sleep, caught in a swirl of memories like petals spinning in a storm. One shard surfaced first—clearer than the others.
The old X-jet landed with a battered groan, its once-pristine silver skin now riddled with scorch marks. As the engines whined down, Ororo walked confidently down the boarding ramp, her white hair whipping slightly in the downdraft.
Beside her walked a towering young man—Piotr Rasputin—his thick arms crossed awkwardly over his chest, his expression equal parts awe and discomfort.
Back then, Ororo thought with a smile, he was still so shy.
As they stepped onto the tarmac, a familiar blur of panic bolted toward them. Hank McCoy, blue fur bristling in alarm, waved his clipboard like a weapon. "By the gods, Ororo! How—how could you let the brand‑new jet end up like this?!"
His voice cracked in disbelief. Ororo crossed her arms casually and tilted her head, the picture of innocent defiance. "It's not my fault the mission needed a few... risky maneuvers."
Behind them, the jet creaked ominously as something important clattered to the ground. Ororo laughed softly in her dream. That day... the day I brought Piotr home. But then—The memory shifted. Someone else was there, stepping out from the jet's exit hatch.
A blurry figure, almost impossible to focus on—Broad shoulders. Wings of shimmering light, feathers catching the sunset. A grin that warmed even the coldest wind.
The figure called out. "Calm down, Hank. She can ride the winds, not a pair of jet engines."
Ororo turned sharply in the memory, hands on hips, her voice half-teasing, half-warning. "You do know I can zap you right out of the sky, right?"
The blurry winged figure just laughed—a sound so familiar, it made Ororo's chest ache—and said with a soft, teasing lilt. "I'd like to see you try."
The words struck deep. So casual. So real. Ororo's dream‑self smiled—she remembered smiling. But here, now, in the fractured dream, something itched behind her eyes. Who was that?Why can't I see his face?
The scene cracked like ice beneath her feet. The warm memory faded, replaced by a creeping sadness she couldn't name.
The mist of dreams shifted again—this time through the steady, disciplined mind of Piotr Rasputin. He found himself standing once more on the cracked asphalt of the old Xavier property, where it all began.
It was the day Ororo brought him here, fresh from Russia, a world away from the cold farmlands he had once called home. He remembered the mixture of awe and trepidation bubbling inside him.
In front of him stood Ororo, Hank McCoy, and another figure—a blurry winged man who somehow made the heavy air feel lighter.
Piotr squared his broad shoulders and, in a thick Russian accent laced with an instinctive use of Russian words, introduced himself. "Hai. I am Piotr Rasputin."
Hank, clipboard in hand, adjusted his glasses and smiled warmly. "Oh! A new face—excellent. This place is too large and empty without more voices filling it."
Piotr shifted awkwardly. He heard them mention building something bigger, something better—a school where mutants could find safety, family, training. It intrigued him deeply.
Hank continued, gesturing excitedly. "Oh yes! We're still at the very early stages. Right now, Moira and I are working on extending Cerebro to search for young mutants across the globe. Professor Xavier has big plans."
Piotr opened his mouth to speak—to ask about what part he could play—but hesitated, uncertainty knotting in his chest. Instead, he simply said, "Ah. Okay."
Then, the blurry winged figure stepped forward, flashing a grin that seemed to slice through Piotr's doubts like sunlight.
He reached up and patted Piotr's broad shoulder—almost comically considering their height difference—and spoke with earnest warmth. "I say this to you, comrade. Your voice matters here. If you ever need to speak, speak. Don't hold back. We're here to support each other. Like you said: we are comrades, da?"
Past-Piotr, young and still carrying the frost of his homeland inside him, smiled broadly. "Da... comrades."
The words seared themselves into Piotr's dream-soul, a memory resurfacing with the force of a hammer strike. That voice…That kindness…
The memory blurred again, speeding forward. Now Piotr saw himself in a dusty garage one year later, sleeves rolled up, oil smudged across his arms as he worked tirelessly on his beloved SUV.
Beside him, Logan grumbled under his breath while leaning against a tool bench, sipping from a beer. And the winged figure—still not fully clear, but now with hints of white feathers and blond hair—sat cross-legged atop a stack of tires.
Logan gave the engine a quick glance and shrugged. "Eh. It's powerful enough, I guess."
The winged man grinned mischievously and leaned over. "Yeah, but it's too plain. Needs style."
Piotr wiped his hands on a rag, raising an eyebrow. "Style? What are you thinking?"
Without missing a beat, the winged man pulled something from behind his back—a small bumper sticker shaped like tiny silver wings—and slapped it triumphantly onto the SUV's bumper.
SLAP.
Logan scoffed. "Really? A bumper sticker? What is this, the 1960s?"
The winged man laughed, a clear, sound that echoed warmly through the garage. "Heyyy, come on! It's about to be a new millennium. Old stuff always comes back around. Vintage is in, Wolverine." Logan rolled his eyes but didn't argue further.
The real Piotr, drifting in this half‑dream, half‑memory, found himself smiling. A bittersweet ache bloomed in his chest. The winged man. The one who made even heavy days lighter. He was almost fully clear now...
In the drifting tide of dreams, Piotr Rasputin found himself piecing together a realization. That scratched-up bumper sticker—the tiny silver wings on the back of his SUV he had seen every day for years—Every time he had thought about scraping it off or replacing it, every time he washed the car and paused at it with a frown of indecision, he had hesitated.
He hadn't understood why. But now he did. Somewhere deep in his soul, Piotr hadn't wanted to forget. Even if his conscious mind had been stripped of the memory, something stubborn remained—a small, rebellious act of remembrance. A ghost of friendship pressed into a scrap of vinyl. The memories drifted onward...
We now followed Logan's dream. he was back, leaning on the workbench. He grumbled as Piotr admired the stickered bumper, then noticed something out of the corner of his eye. The blurry winged man was gone.
Logan narrowed his eyes, instinct flaring. He turned—and sure enough, there he was—hovering above Logan's prized motorcycle, smirking wickedly as he pressed another winged bumper sticker onto it.
Logan exploded, stomping forward with a snarl. "Warren, you winged bastard!!"
The blurry figure—Warren—cackled and took off into the air, his wings flaring white and glorious as he zoomed away, laughing.
The blurry fog over him shifted, cleared. Golden hair, cocky smile, mischief shining in his sky-bright eyes. Warren Worthington III. Logan smiled faintly even as the memory shifted again, the years flashing past like pages flipped by the wind.
Now Logan found himself behind the wheel of an old, SHIELD-issue SUV, driving down a narrow, snow-lined street. Charles Xavier sat beside him, thumbing through a small leather notebook.
Logan grunted, flicking his cigarette out the cracked window. "So what's the plan this time, Chuck?"
Charles smiled without looking up. "Nothing complicated. Let me handle it. I've been asked as a psychiatrist to visit a young mutant."
Logan gave a low, skeptical chuckle. "Meticulous of you. Disguising yourself like that."
Charles finally looked up, amused. "Logan, I have seven doctorate degrees. I am a psychiatrist."
Logan snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Chuck."
They pulled up outside a modest home in Annandale-on-Hudson, a sleepy town coated in winter frost. Logan leaned back and lit another cigarette. "I'll wait here."
Charles nodded and made his way to the front door, knocking politely as Logan settled into the idling warmth of the SUV.
Minutes passed. One hour. Then another. Logan had just finished a third cigarette when Charles finally returned. Logan raised an eyebrow. "No luck?"
Charles shook his head, a faint tiredness clinging to him. "No... I made progress with the child. But convincing the parents will take time. We'll come back."
Logan tossed his cigarette aside, threw the SUV into gear, and drove them back toward Westchester through the quiet snow. He didn't ask for more details. Not because he wasn't curious—but because sometimes, trust meant knowing when to stay silent.
The dreams shifted, and now it was Scott Summers'. He watched from behind half-lidded, dream-soaked eyes, as the memory played out in vivid colors.
Through the frosted windows of the X-Mansion, young Scott—barely thirteen—peered outside, watching an old SHIELD-issue SUV rumble up the long drive. Its tires crunched over the snowy path.
He glanced sideways at his brother.
Alex Summers, twelve years old, bundled in a too-big hoodie, nudged him with an elbow. "Brother, is the Professor bringing a new student again?"
Scott shrugged without looking away. "I don't know."
They watched as Professor Xavier emerged from the vehicle, rolling smoothly toward the front doors. Alone.
Alex squinted. "Hey, he's not bringing anyone out. Did he change his mind?"
Scott remained silent, observing carefully.
Inside, the mansion's heavy doors swung open. Charles entered, shaking off the cold, his voice calm and warm as he answered the two boys. "This one needs more time. Hopefully, she'll join us soon." With a small, distracted smile, he wheeled himself toward his office.
Alex immediately turned to Scott, grinning mischievously, elbowing him again. "Heard that? She."
Scott sighed, exasperated. "You're impossible. We're not even a month here, and you're already planning your wedding?"
Alex laughed. Just then, Logan entered from the side hallway, shrugging off a battered leather jacket. The boys looked at him expectantly.
Logan caught Alex's wide, eager stare, and grunted. "What—you want me to spill secrets about a potential student? Forget it, kid."
Alex, ever the bold one, blurted. "Is she beautiful?"
Scott turned to scold his brother. "Hey! Focus! We're not even settled in yet."
Logan snorted and ignored them both, heading deeper into the mansion.
As Scott watched Logan's retreating back, another voice drifted in, warm and teasing. "Don't worry about Logan. He's just shy."
Scott turned. It was a man with wings—The winged man gave a relaxed, friendly smile.
Scott stiffened instinctively. "Yes, sir."
The winged man laughed. "Don't be so stiff, kid. Enjoy your life here. You're still young."
He pointed casually toward the pantry across the hall. "Go on. Get yourself something sweet. Have some cake once in a while. Live a little." Then, with a casual shrug of those massive wings, he sauntered away, leaving Scott standing awkwardly in the corridor.
Scott hesitated. The world inside the mansion still felt new. Unfamiliar. And yet… somehow safe. He found himself smiling slightly, then drifting toward the pantry.
Maybe just one slice wouldn't hurt. Maybe—just maybe—this place could be home.
As Scott's memories drifted into silence, others began to stir. Flashes of memories. Scattered at first, then brighter, more vivid, pulling each of them back toward the pieces they had unknowingly lost.
Anna Marie stood in a sunlit kitchen, bare feet on cool tiles, laughing—as Warren Worthington III handed her a pie from the high cabinet, teasing. "You know, flying has its perks." She giggled, a rare lightness in her younger self.
Petra knelt in the garden courtyard, her hands dusty from pulling weeds, listening intently as Lorna Dane showed her how to manipulate the iron-rich soil with tiny electromagnetic pulses.
"Control, Petra. Even the earth listens if you talk to it right." The green-haired girl winked, like it was their little secret.
Suzanne Chan struggled at first in the library, frustrated by a thick science textbook. Until a winged figure glided down from the stairwell, landing soundlessly beside her. "Let me guess—physics?" Warren grinned. "Don't worry. I failed it once too." Together they bent over the book, laughing over their shared incompetence.
Armando Muñoz sprinted through the training yard, not dodging energy blasts during a harsh Danger Room session, but adapting his body to each attack.
Panting, he slumped against a wall—and there was Lorna, dropping beside him, handing him a bottle of water. "Your power's crazy, Armando. But even crazy needs to breathe." Her voice was pure encouragement.
Calvin Montgomery Rankin caught sight of himself on a practical lesson with Warren class, matching every elegant dive and strike.
Warren, laughing mid-air. "You copy my powers, but can you copy my style?" Calvin grinned ferociously and tackled him in mid-air.
Bobby Drake floated a crude snow sculpture toward Lorna once, a chubby snowman with green leaves for hair.
Lorna snorted laughter. "Is that supposed to be me?"
Bobby, smug, crossed his arms. "Art is subjective, magnetic princess."
She retaliated by magnetically chucking a spoon at him.
Remy LeBeau leaned against a balcony railing at sunset, a deck of cards dancing between his fingers.
Warren leaned next to him, sipping a soda. "You always that dramatic, LeBeau?"
Remy smirked. "Charm, mon ami. Can't turn it off."
John Proudstar stood under the starry night. He saw himself sparring with Warren, the feathered man flinching as he dodged and block John's heavy strikes. "Agility's nothing without focus, Warren. Even an eagle needs precision." John said—but inside, the memory warmed him like fire.
Hank McCoy sat cross-legged on the floor of the lab, scribbling furious notes.
Lorna was perched upside down on a rolling stool, laughing. "You think I'm chaotic, teacher Hank? Look at this place!" Hank chuckled, unbothered by the chaos—just grateful for her bright presence.
Moira MacTaggert's memory returned too. She stood by the front gates of the mansion one rainy evening, a soaked figure clutching a heavy backpack.
Warren, wings half-drenched but still graceful, handed her a towel. "You're safe here. This is your home too."
Moira remembered gripping that towel like a lifeline.
They all remembered now. Warren Worthington III — the Winged Guardian. Lorna Dane — the Magnetic Heart
Both erased. Both beloved. And with it came the terrible, unbearable weight.
All these memories—hidden beneath the surface for so long, shoved into dark corners of their minds. Now they bloomed—a thousand shards of lost laughter, forgotten comfort, and unseen pain. It all culminated into one aching, unspoken question: Why? Why were they forgotten?
**A/N**
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**A/N**