hello! ^^ welcome to my story!

this first part takes place in First Class, and will be called "Breach".

I OWN NOTHING OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE, ONLY MY OC-ARYA-AND HER FICTIONAL INVOLVEMENT IN THIS STORY.

update, 1/12/2016, explained in the A/N of Chapter 8 of Prometheus: Arya, originally from Carlsbad, California, is now from Glen Island, New Rochelle, NY.

Chapter 1

Sand clung to her sweaty legs as Arya kicked up with all the strength she could muster. Though the net was higher up than it was supposed to be, energy from the sun and the crowd's roars gave her enough adrenaline so that she was above it with ease. The ball was right there. Chloe had set it perfectly. It spun, fast, blocking out the sunlight from her face as she hovered below it, arm poised up. Arya brought it down. The ball wasn't caught. The crowd erupted in cheers.

"Arya Jacobs earns The Eagles another point with a devastating spike!" the MC all but yelled into the microphone, his voice echoing loudly across the beach.

Arya grinned widely as Chloe patted her on the back, and as the opposing court glared. The redheaded girl she had aimed the spike at, the one who hadn't caught the ball when it was so close, rubbed her elbows. Her dive had cost her. It only made Arya grin wider.

As the people continued to cheer and yell and clap, the girls arranged themselves once more around the court. Arya didn't let Chloe pass her by without fist bumping her. "Nice set there."

"It's my job, Arya!"

Arya laughed, coming to a stop when she reached the Service Area. It was her service again, and her heart pumped louder when the ball rolled to her. She angled her leg so that the ball rolled up and into her awaiting hands.

"Just one more," she muttered, bending her torso because the whistle had already been blown and she was allowed to serve.

Counting the seconds, her eyes veered to the mass of people watching by the sidelines. All of them either wore beach shorts designed with colorful flowers, no shirts, or they wore swimsuits. That was why Arya found it rather odd when she spotted two men dressed in fancy clothes that were not sewn for the beating sun.; one had short, curly hair and wore a vest over a white dress-shirt and black pants, with leather shoes. His companion was more built that he was, and wore a white shirt tucked in khaki pants.

Arya noticed all these little details within the span of three seconds.

"One more point, folks, and the trophy goes to The Golden Eagles," the MC said, snapping Arya back to reality. "Will they get this?"

Of course we will. A smile crept up her lips and she threw the ball up, high. As it stopped its ascent and travelled downwards, Arya pushed herself off the ground and swung her arm, hitting the ball perfectly square on her palm. The heavy taping around her hand made the loud smack muffled, but it still flew like a bird to the opposite side of the court, and she ran to her spot at the bottom-right corner of their side, poising herself.

She could see their opponents scramble to receive the ball that she had intentionally hit harder, making it fly faster. And obviously it landed harder. Anyone could see it on the face of the girl who had caught it. She was blonde. She had to dive for it, but it went up. The redhead tossed it high up, and the blonde spiked the ball.

The words spilled from her mouth unconsciously when Arya stopped the ball. It made contact with her forearms as its descent came to an abrupt stop and it was up again.

"SET IT!" Arya yelled, already backing up for her run. She was the spiker, after all. Chloe was her setter, and she grunted as she tossed the ball high up the Centre Line. It swerved to the right, just inches from the right antenna, but still fine enough for a spike.

Arya took a sprinting start, keeping her eyes on the ball that was so close from passing the lines. She pushed off the ground, bringing both hands up so that she flew higher.

But just then, a girl from the other side of the net came running up to her front, a scowl apparent on her face in the sunlight. It was the redhead Arya had spiked at, the one who had dived for the ball but hadn't actually caught it. It was a good thing, though, that Arya hadn't hit the ball yet, because her arms were up, and if she had spiked the ball then her opponent would have stopped it easily, and then Chloe wouldn't have caught it. The tables would have turned, then.

But she hadn't spiked it yet.

The redhead was so confident Arya was going to, but she wasn't. So, grinning from ear to ear, Arya let herself sink back down ever so slightly, bending her arm to the side. Her fingers touched the ball, and instead of spiking it, she gave it the lightest of pushes to the left, and it was falling. The redhead in front of her desperately tried to bring it back up again with one hand but it was already too late.

The ball touched solid ground, there was a whistle, and it was over.

The Golden Eagles had won.

And as she stood there by the pole in front of the net, the people watching from the sidelines descended upon their home court. Yells and shrieks of excitement reached Arya's ears, along with her own laughter, and it was enough to block out anything else.

She held her taped fist up in the air as the people lifted her on their shoulders, chanting a steady stream of her name. "Arya! Arya! Arya! Arya!" they went. But while they said that Arya kept her arms up and yelled, as loud as she could, she yelled, "THE GOLDEN EAGLES!"

Chloe had also been lifted up. The widest of smiles lit her face up. "WE WON!"

The celebration lasted for an hour. There was drinking, dancing, laughing, but only for an hour. The sun was setting and everybody either had to pack up their stuff, or go home. Arya did neither.

She sat on the warm sand by the shore, letting the water lap up at her feet as she drank a cold bottle of beer. The sky and the ocean looked absolutely perfect during twilight, and it was during those few precious minutes that Arya let herself forget about everything else, think about nothing else, and hear nothing else but wave crashing over wave. There were only a few more people left on the beach. Some walked along the coastline, holding hands with lovers or friends or family. Some were sitting on the sand as well, enjoying the view as Arya was.

Her friend Chloe had already gone home. She remembered watching the ginger walk away, cradling their trophy in her arms. Arya could have imagined her planting kisses onto the golden surface. It amused her to great extents, and she knew that she'd be teasing her friend for a long time to come.

As the burning sun slowly dipped out of sight, Arya suddenly felt eyes boring into her.

"Congratulations."

She jumped at the unexpected voice, wildly looking around to see from whom it came from.

"You're very good at what you do, you know," the voice said. Arya's stomach churned when she realized that it was coming from her head. She was hearing things. Why was she hearing things?

"Don't panic, Arya. We just want to talk."

Arya stilled, her hands tightening into fists and crushing grains of sand, as she slowly twisted from her spot. Behind her, a few yards away, two men stood on the dirt path that led to town. One wore a vest, and one had his shirt tucked in. It was the men she'd seen watching her play her last point. She knew there was something odd about them. But what could they have possibly wanted to talk about with her?

"You know what," the voice replied, and it was then that Arya understood that these people were like her. How else could they have been communicating with her through her mind? It wasn't natural. And she was positive that they were reading her mind as well, for they were answering questions she hadn't even voiced out loud.

But how had they found her?

"We'll explain everything later." Arya scowled before trying to isolate her thoughts from the probing telepath. But she listened, her interest—and wariness—piqued. "Just give us a chance to talk."

Through narrowed eyes, Arya watched as the younger-looking of the men smiled and tapped his temple, a knowing look in his eye. Arya pushed herself up, not taking her eyes off the two gents as she snatched her long blouse off the sand. She brushed it off and slid it over her head whilst walking towards them. It was a pity she hadn't brought shorts as well, but she did not exactly have a reason, then. Now she did.

Arya finally reached them and stepped up. The two ran their eyes down her body, apparently pleased with the sight, and Arya was just about to turn around and walk away, satisfied with the thought that they were just two hormone-filled men looking for some fun, when one of them spoke. Specifically, the one wearing the vest.

"Like I said," he started, making Arya plant her feet on the ground once more. "Congratulations."

Then the other gent spoke up. "Yes, you're quite good."

Arya chuckled, but all she was thinking about really was how their accents suited them. "Thanks," was all she said, still very wary but bent on keeping up her confidence. "So, what brings you gents here to the wonderful beaches of Glen Island?"

She pulled off a smile, and Tucker—she decided to call him that because his shirt was tucked-in—, to her surprise, held his hand out behind him. A metal chair from one of the tables in the restaurants across the beach flew towards them and into Tucker's waiting hands.

He then put it up in front of him and sat with his legs on either side. "We should take our seats, don't you think, Charles?"

"Right." The one in the vest, Charles, flashed a brilliant smile and pulled up a chair for himself… using his hands, thankfully. But there weren't many people left milling about anyway; anyone who would have seen the chair flying across the road were sure to have dismissed it as a figment of their imagination.

So Tucker can move objects and Charles here is a telepath. Brilliant.

"Now, who on earth is Tucker?" Charles exclaimed with a slight laugh, looking at his friend with mock surprise.

Tucker didn't seem at all pleased with his new nickname. He frowned, saying, "Certainly not me."

Arya threw her hands up, eyes widening before pulling up a chair for herself and sitting on it the same manner Tucker was. "Well maybe you should introduce yourselves then!" Her voice purposefully dripped with sarcasm, but she was disappointed when the men merely chuckled in response.

"Alright," Charles said, licking his lips before holding his hand out. "Hello, I'm Charles Xavier."

Xavier. Why did the name sound so familiar? Arya eyed the outstretched hand in front of her, truthfully not meaning to shake it any time soon. "Arya Jacobs," she replied, pursing her lips and clasping her hands together as subtly as she could. It wasn't enough, and Charles noticed. He paid it no heed, however, and dropped his hand just as his friend raised his own.

"Erik," he said. Arya scowled and raised her eyes to find that he was pointedly looking at her, his eyes flitting from her face to his outstretched hand. "It's rude not to shake, you know."

Arya sent a cynical smile to his direction. "I don't think you'd appreciate what I'd have to offer behind these." She raised her palms outward, nodding at the tape. "You should be happy that I don't forget."

Erik—it was a shame, Tucker was a rather good nickname—dropped his hand, his eyes glinting with something Arya couldn't put her finger on. "We've showed you our mutations, now show us yours."

"I don't think I will." She dropped the good girl act, not very happy with the way the conversation was going. "I'm sorry, boys, but you don't seem to be very good at making friends." Her eyes flit from Erik to Charles, settling on each of them for a long time before finally resting on the telepath. He had a very calm aura about him, but Arya was getting impatient. "So riddle me this: what do you want?"

The two men glanced at each other, and there seemed to have been a conversation between the five silent seconds, for when Charles looked back at her he looked to be as confident as he was when he was in her mind. He smiled, leaning forward. "We're looking for recruits."

Arya was immediately on high alert. "For what battle?"

"Not a battle," Charles said, now fully serious. "A war."

"And who started this war?"

"A mutant named Sebastian Shaw." It was Erik, now, who spoke. And there was a fire in his eyes that Arya suspected to be anger. "He and his group called the Hellfire Club seem to be bent on world domination."

Honestly, the whole world domination thing seemed farfetched to Arya. No one, so far, had ever actually succeeded in that goal. So she had to ask, "Are they powerful?"

"Very," Charles answered, this time.

"And what are their odds of actually succeeding?"

"50/50," the telepath said, his eyes sparkling. "But if you come with us and help, those odds may change"—He grinned.—"In our favor."

Arya raised her eyebrows. "You seriously think that." It wasn't a question.

Both men leaned forward, then, putting Arya in a very awkward position and making her lean back; though she smirked, and the two newly-introduced mutants did as well. "We don't know what your power is, Arya," Charles said, his voice turning soft, making Arya look up into his eyes. "But we know that you're powerful, that you hold the key to turning the tables."

Erik shifted in his seat. "Although we fully intend on seeing your powers, in time."

I'm not that powerful, Arya thought to herself, looking down at her hands and biting the inside of her cheek as the dreadful memories came flooding back. Did she really need more people hurt? She was positive that, if she fought in this war, there would be more destruction than peace.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore." Arya's head snapped back up to look at Charles, for it was he who had said the words. "We can teach you."

That was all she had ever wanted. Ever since the accident, all she'd wanted to do was learn how to control them, tame her power. It had never happened. She'd never succeeded in keeping it in control. She had hurt a lot of people when she had decided to take that path. A quick veer off the road, a couple of bucks to buy her gloves, and she was safe. The tape she wore now was only necessary because gloves weren't allowed in a game. But she had never learned.

How would these people, these mutants who knew nothing about what she could do, help her? How would they teach her?

So, after a full minute of fighting internally with herself, she looked back up into the telepath's startling blue eyes. "If I say yes…" Arya gulped back the growing lump in her throat, trying to keep her thoughts straight. "I can hurt people." She looked deep into the telepath's eyes, desperately wishing she could read his mind the way he could read hers. "Are you sure you want me in the front lines?"

"We're sure," Charles answered without hesitation.

Arya narrowed her eyes, finally voicing out the cause of the on-going war inside her head: "How can I even know if I can trust you?"

Charles dropped his gaze, but Arya didn't, and she watched, her heart pounding, as he shared another glance with Erik. Another unspoken conversation passed between the two before the telepath looked at her again.

"Maybe you can't…" He smiled. "And we may not know what your powers are, but after all this, we intend on letting you walk away with them on a leash."

And though the way he phrased it was considerably odd, Arya's mind was set.