Well. This is the beginning of probably my favorite story I've ever written. Ironically, this chapter right here is my least favorite, but that's beside the point.

This story is not going to have frequent updates, because the updates are going to be huge. Currently, I have two and a half chapters (not counting this prologue) written and the chapters are averaging about ten pages a piece. I'll be posting updates (when I have them) on Wednesdays.

I hope you all enjoy this, because like I said, it's one of my favorites.

I would love to hear from you all, so if you're so inclined, tell me what you think of the story!

A Dangerous Game

Prologue: Show Me Proof

The large room was lit by a series of overhead lights, casting a harsh, fluorescent glow on the lone punching bag in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with a large black mat, offering a light cushion from the harsh cement floor underneath. Cinderblock walls rose several feet up into the air, interrupted by a wall of glass eight feet above ground level. On the other side of the glass was a black, metal catwalk, which offered a place for observation of the room below. Two people stood on the catwalk now, a short, thin man with balding hair and blue eyes, and a taller, muscular man with brown hair and cold gray eyes.

"When is the subject going to be here?" the shorter man asked.

"Patience, McCone," the taller man replied. "The guards will bring subject X in shortly."

McCone let out an impatient sigh as he tapped his designer shoe against the metal catwalk.

"I have a schedule to keep, Captain Stryker," he said. "I can't waste all of my time here."

"I understand," Captain Stryker said steadily, undeterred by the other man's irritation. "He's worth the wait."

"He better be," McCone said flatly. "I'm paying you a lot of money to train these freaks."

"Money that is well spent," Captain Stryker assured. "You'll see shortly."

As he spoke, a set of stainless steel doors down below opened silently, admitting a tall, burly man dressed in fatigues and combat boot. He strode to the middle of the room and cast a swift glance up to the catwalk.

"Is that the subject?" McCone demanded.

Stryker shook his head. "No," he answered. "That is Corporal Jennings. He's in charge of training the experiments."

Before McCone had the chance to ask any more questions, the steel doors opened once more. This time, a medium height man of around 5'7 stepped into the room. He was dressed simply in a pair of sweatpants and a skin tight black t-shirt. He was also barefoot.

The shorter man had dark brown hair that was borderline shaggy with a young, thin face. His eyes were averted, studying the man in the center of the room. His frame was lean, yet his arms showed signs of serious muscle.

"That is Subject X?" McCone asked incredulously. "He looks like a kid!"

"Just wait," Major Stryker cautioned, a smile playing at his lips. He pressed a button near the window. "When you are ready, Corporal, you may begin."

There was a brief moment of hesitation down on the floor as both men seized each other up. To any untrained observer, the winner of the fight would undoubtedly be Corporal Jennings. Size difference aside, the smaller man looked as though a strong gust of wind could knock him over.

Corporal Jennings acted first, swinging his fist toward Subject X's face. Before the blow landed, Subject X ducked and kicked out with his left foot, connecting squarely with Corporal Jennings' unprotected chest. The taller man let out a grunt of pain, bringing his extended arm back to protect his chest.

Subject X didn't give the Corporal a chance to recover. He feinted with his right fist and then roundhouse kicked Jennings in the stomach. The bigger man let out a yelp as he sank to his knees, but recovered quickly. He dove for Subject X's knees and tackled the smaller man to the floor.

It looked as though the fight was over—there was no way a man that small could out wrestle someone nearly twice his size—but much to the surprise of the captive audience, Subject X wriggled out of Corporal Jennings' grasp and sprang to his feet once more. He landed a swift kick to the Corporal's exposed ribcage and danced out of the way of Jennings' flailing arms as they attempted to capture him.

Subject X landed a single blow to Corporal Jennings' left temple and the bigger man fell into unconsciousness.

The subject walked to the center of the room and cast a swift glance up to the men in the catwalk. His eyes were now visible—they were an intense, dark blue that seemed to burn with unbridled energy, passion, and intelligence. They seemed to bore into the men watching, causing a shiver to go down McCone's spine.

"Damn," he whispered.

Captain Stryker chuckled. "He has that effect on people. It doesn't help that he's a telepath."

McCone's eyes widened as he stared at Major Stryker in astonishment.

"What?" he demanded.

"It's nothing major," Stryker said quickly. "But he has proven to have some telepathic abilities. It's just surface thoughts—nothing beyond that. It comes in handy on missions, though. You wouldn't believe how loudly snipers think."

"How is that even possible?" McCone wanted to know.

Captain Stryker shrugged. "Genetics. You'd have to ask him about it—he's a self-taught expert on the subject. Some of our scientists guess that a couple of his genes were affected by the radiation wave, but we're not entirely certain."

"Are there others like him?"

"Telepaths? Not that we know of. But there are other natural mutants. We have a shape shifter, a computer genius, and a man who is a walking laser."

"What's the telepath's range?" McCone asked, his focus purely on the man in the room below them. He barely seemed to hear what Stryker told him.

Subject X was still watching them intently, though he looked less intense now, and more relaxed. Corporal Jennings was still out cold on the floor.

"We're not entirely certain," Captain Stryker admitted, looking unsatisfied with the answer. "Sometimes it's only a few yards, other times it's a couple of miles. It depends mostly on how hard he's concentrating and if he's familiar with the mind he's listening to or not. We're working on improving that in our labs."

"Fascinating," McCone murmured. "This is truly fascinating. I can't believe what I've just seen or heard for that matter."

"Come," Major Stryker said, clasping a hand on McCone's shoulder. "I'll show you more proof to take back to your investors."

McCone gave Subject X one last glance. The man was now sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, his hands hanging limply by his side. His eyes were closed, but there was a soft smile playing on his face.

"What's he doing?"

Captain Stryker shook his head. "I don't know. Then again, I rarely know what the freaks are doing."

Subject X's eyes opened briefly, flashing a quick glance up to the catwalk, before he closed them once more.

McCone shivered once more, before turning to Stryker. "You said you had proof for me?"

The ancient television set in the far corner was on, with the volume turned on full blast. It could barely be heard over the old coffee percolator that was gurgling away on top of the box or the crackling fire.

The room itself was small and dingy, crammed with old and decaying furniture. The TV sat on a rickety old table in front of the fireplace. A tattered couch that was an off yellow color sat against one wall, allowing its lone occupant to look at both the TV and out the grimy window to the right. A small coffee table that had seen better days in the nineteenth century was covered in empty coffee mugs, dirty plates and bowls, and a handful of official looking documents with a seal that looked suspiciously like the CIA's.

The lone occupant looked completely out of place in his surroundings. He was a medium height man, with graying brown hair, and harsh brown eyes. He was dressed in a pair of pressed black slacks and a white polo.

His name was Sebastian Shaw.

"Today, I bring news of a new world order."

The voice from the television belonged to a tall, muscular man dressed in an olive green military suit. The banner across the bottom of the screen identified him as Captain William Stryker.

"I have put together a team of elite soldiers," Stryker continued. "They are the four strongest, smartest, and fastest men and women you will ever meet."

The screen jumped to a shot of four people. Three were men, one was a woman. The screen was so fuzzy that it was impossible to make out their features.

"These people will help unite America and the world, taking care of any threat that arises," Stryker said as the screen switched back to him.

The crowd gathered around him clapped and cheered.

Shaw let out a cough that could have been a chuckle or an indignant snort as he turned off the TV with the remote. He sat up slowly, stretching his muscles until his shoulders cracked painfully, before reaching over to the coffee table. He picked up one of the documents from the far end and set it on the couch, before standing up and walking over to the TV.

Shaw flipped off the coffee maker and picked up a semi-clean cup. He filled it halfway with coffee, before reaching for the half-empty scotch bottle behind the TV. He took a large swig of the alcohol, relishing the burn as the fiery liquid slid down his throat, before filling the rest of his coffee mug with scotch.

He walked back to the couch, picking his way carefully amongst the piles of books and newspapers he had arranged haphazardly on the floor. The book titles ranged from A Brief History of the CIA to Genetic Mutations while the headlines varied from William Stryker Promoted to Russian Scientist on Verge of Major Breakthrough.

Sitting back down on the couch, Shaw picked up the file and took a sip of his coffee. It was dark and bitter, just the way he liked it.

He rested his feet on top of the coffee table and studied the document in front of him. The official seal of the CIA sat in the top center. The words Top Secret Information rested underneath the seal, followed by a brief warning how secret the information really was.

Shaw skipped over the warnings of imprisonment and death. He knew, perhaps better than just about anyone, what would happen to him if he were to be caught with this information. It was one of the nation's best and most valuable secrets.

.

Genetics Mutation Project

Subject X

Name: Charles Francis Xavier

Age: 26

Status: In training

Brief Description of Abilities: well-trained in all fighting arts, very intelligent, strategist, adaptable to any situation, natural leader, limited telepathic powers?

.

There was a handwritten evaluation that began underneath the description of abilities and went on for three pages, illustrating how much of an asset Xavier was for the CIA. There was an added comment from then Captain Stryker on his own evaluation of Xavier. It simply read potential lethal weapon, must be looked after closely. Will be transferred to my own facility for further instruction and given a team.

Shaw merely skimmed over it, having read it multiple times before.

There were three other similar files. Two of them were men—Hank McCoy and Alex Summers—and the last belonged to a woman—Raven Darkholme. They were all ages twenty to twenty-five, all extremely intelligent, and all gifted in some way or another. McCoy, Shaw recalled, was a computer genius. Summers was a walking laser. Darkholme was a shape shifter.

These were the four men and one woman that had been on television a few minutes before.

Somewhere nearby, a phone rang. Shaw smiled to himself as he set down his coffee cup and went in search of the phone.

"Shaw," he answered.

"You got lucky," a woman's voice snapped.

"Now, Emma, where are your manners?" Sebastian asked with a smile as he leaned against the doorway. "I told you those would be the ones Stryker picked. It's not my fault you and everyone else thought I was wrong."

Emma sighed. "How bad is it, Shaw?" she asked, her voice betraying how anxious she was. "Is this the end of the HRA?"

"Nonsense!" Shaw exclaimed. "Only a fool would think that. This just means we'll have to be more careful."

"They have a telepath, Sebastian!" Emma yelled. "A fucking telepath. How the hell are we supposed to counter that?"

"The same way we always do," Shaw replied. "It'll be okay, dear. I promise you that. Soon enough, the humans will be back at their rightful place in the world. Did you send Lensherr out on the assignment?"

"Yes," Emma said, sounding a little more relaxed. "He'll be back in a few weeks."

"Good. Call for a meeting tonight," Shaw said, playing absently with the phone cord. "I'm sure everyone has a lot of questions."

"Okay," Emma said. There was a slight pause. "Are you sure everything is going to be okay?"

"Yes," Shaw said reassuringly. "Everything is going to be just fine."

He hung up the phone and glanced back at the files, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Everything is going to be just fine," he repeated.