"GODDAMN IT!" The thunderous roar of frustration echoed through the sterile halls of the sub-basement level of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Inside the sprawling lab, Hank McCoy, his fur bristling with stress, slammed a steel clipboard onto a reinforced table, sending a cascade of holo-screens into disarray. Instruments beeped in confusion. Vitals flickered.
Moira MacTaggert, quiet as a church bell at midnight, stood near the twin stasis beds. Inside them, motionless but constantly monitored—were Lorna Dane and Warren Worthington III. Their bodies looked pristine, unaged, untouched by time. Their minds? Shattered.
Moira's voice was soft. "We've stabilized them… but they're still trapped in that moment. That day." She didn't need to say which day.
Hank ran both hands through his mane. "Charles… he told us from the start, there's nothing he could do. Not even in the mindscape. Their psyches aren't just wounded, they're looping. Trapped in a recursive echo."
There was a hiss from the doorway. The hydraulic slide of the steel lab doors. John Proudstar stepped in, tall and solemn, holding a stack of yellowed paper files. His expression is unreadable as always. "I might've found something," he said.
Both Hank and Moira turned immediately. Moira blinked. "Anything can help at this point."
John nodded and placed the bundle on the central table. "I pulled this from one of our old black-site missions. A library vault in Argentina. It's a collection of research papers… authored by someone named—Dr. Bolivar Trask."
Silence.
Hank's pupils narrowed. Moira's breath caught in her throat. "What?" they both shouted.
John raised his hands. "Okay, okay, calm down. I don't know who this guy is, but judging by your reaction, I'm guessing he's not your average Harvard dropout."
Moira sat slowly. "He was a genius. A visionary. Ahead of his time by decades, maybe more. His theories were…" She trailed off, thinking of all the suppressed files, the ethical violations… the Sentinel Initiative.
Hank chimed in, "He proposed true artificial intelligence before Alan Turing even had a working prototype. The man was dangerous—but brilliant."
"Yeah, well… he's probably dead by now," John said.
"That's not the point," Moira said as she lifted one of the files. The pages rustled with a weight that felt heavier than paper.
"Then what is?" John asked.
Hank didn't answer. He moved quickly, feeding the documents into the digitizer. In seconds, the contents bloomed across the air in blue holographic sprawl. Schematics, formulas, neurological mappings, psychic wave simulations, cortical overlays… and something deeper. A neural framework. Not just for AI… but for psychic replication. A system to imitate or rebuild a mind.
Hank stepped forward, mouth agape. "…Holy shit."
John raised a brow. "Okay, now I'm scared."
Moira's eyes darted from one line to another, absorbing. Processing. Connecting. "This isn't just A.I., this is… theoretical neuroscience applied to conscious architecture. He was trying to build a bridge between machine cognition and psychic repair. This is… decades beyond where we are."
"He was trying to emulate the mind's structure." Hank's voice trembled. "Memory scaffolding. Emotional feedback. Dream cognition. Even… temporal resonance patterns. A complete digital mind-map…"
John blinked. "In English?"
Hank turned to him, stunned. "This might not just help Lorna and Warren… It could be a way to rebuild broken minds from within. To restart them."
Moira added, "It's not perfect. It's incomplete. But if we can cross-reference it with Cerebro's residual scans before Charles sealed Jean's mind… and perhaps Jack Hou's own mind-mapping technique…"
Hank muttered, "We might have a path forward."
John smirked. "Well, I don't get half of what you just said… but I'm glad I kept that old mission file." He turned and began to leave, pausing at the doorway. "One more thing," he said. "Those papers were sealed in an adamantium casing. Not just to protect them… but to hide them." He left without another word.
Hank and Moira stood there, the blue light of the holograms illuminating their faces. A new frontier was opening—and if they could finish what Trask started… They might just bring their friends back.
…
The gravel path of the mansion's inner garden crunched softly beneath Alex Summers' boots as he pushed the wheelchair. Beside him, his elder brother Scott kept pace, his brows furrowed in thought. Professor Charles Xavier sat in silence, hands folded in his lap, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something only he could hear—something deeper than birdsong or breeze.
"It's just…" Scott began, voice low, "It feels off."
"Off how?" Xavier asked gently.
Scott turned his head toward the gardens. "Everything I used to feel about Jean, from the obsession… to the guilt, even the anger. It's just gone. Like someone cut a wire inside me."
Alex gave a soft, sardonic laugh. "Well, I still hate her," he muttered. "Just… not as much as before that stick wielder lunatic beat the living daylights out of her."
Xavier exhaled through his nose, a breath laced with sympathy and weariness. "The Phoenix Force…" he said slowly, "is not simply a power. It's an entity. It feeds on strong, chaotic emotion—particularly pain and fury. It thrives on it. It manipulates. Warps. Infects."
Scott's jaw clenched. "So you're saying… all those feelings—love, jealousy, resentment… they were never really mine?"
"They were yours," Xavier said. "But twisted. Amplified. Directed to serve its purpose. To make Jean break."
A heavy silence fell among the three.
Alex kept pushing the chair, slower now. His steps grew heavier as they turned the corner past the side garden—toward the main lawn. And there, like a monument to defiance, stood the marbled form of Jack Hou. The prince of crime. Caught in stasis.
Scott's eyes lingered on Jack's cracked marble skin, golden ichor glowing faintly from the fractures. A heartbeat beneath stone. "What do I do now, Professor?" he asked, his voice raw.
Xavier turned toward the statue. His lips curved, small and knowing. "You live, Scott," he said simply. "You feel. You forgive. You become free. For the first time in years… there is no voice manipulating your head whispering pain into your heart."
Scott said nothing. But Alex looked at the statue for a long time. And thought of green hair. Of guilt. Of loss. Of love he never got to give. And he made a plan. Just as Scott did. Different plans. But born of the same silence.
Then—A chill in the air. A shiver across their skin. And from the marbled lips before them, a crack widened—And the voice that haunted them, mocked them, and somehow comforted them all the same—Spilled out like morning light. "Kekekekekekeke…"
The golden ichor, once dormant in thin cracks across the marble, now pulsed like the heartbeat of a divine storm. Pulse. Glow. Crack. The sound echoed across the front lawn of the X-Mansion like thunder building behind glass.
Alex Summers immediately grabbed the handles of Professor Xavier's wheelchair and yanked him back, wheeling the professor several feet away from the marbled figure now humming with celestial energy. The grass beneath Jack's statue began to curl and dance as if touched by spring itself.
Scott stood in front of them like a soldier before a wildfire. His hand flew to his comm watch. "Code Red," he barked. "Jack Hou's statue—he's breaking." But before the X-Men security net could deploy—before the teachers and students could flood the lawn—The shell cracked.
With a deafening shatter, the marble coating fell in chunks, like a chrysalis rupturing around a newborn god. Golden light burst out in radiant beams. And through that light—his laughter returned. "Kekekekekeke. Merry Christmas!"
A blur of sky-blue wind spiraled into the air—Zephyr, his faithful companion, flapping free like a storm cloud freed from its jar. It twisted mid-air in what could only be described as a stretch, a shake, and a yawn, all at once.
And from the glowing fragments of divine stone, stepped out—Jack Hou. His long hair slightly messy, his bare feet touching the earth as if it had never felt more solid. His eyes gleamed with golden light, his robe frayed and torn—yet alive with dormant magic.
He smiled. Wide. "Oh," he said with a squint upward. "It's already spring?" He gave a stretch, bones popping like fireworks. "Damn. I overslept."
But then. He froze. His head tilted. His brows furrowed. He turned to look behind him. There, dangling like a smug afterthought, was a monkey tail. "…Fuck," Jack whispered. "It stayed with me?!?" The tail twitched like it was offended.
He experimented, hopping up into the air—and with a whip-crack twist, his tail coiled beneath him, suspending him in a squat above the lawn, cross-legged, arms folded in deep thought. "Kekekeke," he chuckled, spinning slowly like a lazy weather vane. "This is fun. Though… what does this make me? No human should have a tail, right? Half-god? Monkey-plus?"
Then he spotted them. Alex still holding Xavier's wheelchair steady. Scott, still stunned, a protective stance between them. "Oh hey, X-kids!" Jack waved with both arms like they were long-lost drinking buddies. "How's the trauma?" His golden gaze scanned over them. It sparkled with playful chaos.
"I-I thought you were dead," Scott stammered, stunned.
Alex, always ready with a sarcastic jab, added, "Well, usually turning into a marble statue screams 'dead.'"
Jack cackled. "Kekekeke! You guys ever have tacos in your cafeteria?"
Silence.
From behind the group, a low growl and a gravelly voice cut through. "…You're alive." Logan. He emerged with the rest of the X-Men: Piotr, Remy, Ororo, Jubilee, Hank, Bobby—all stunned. They'd seen rouge mutants to phoenixes. But seeing Jack… alive? That hit different.
Jack turned, spinning mid-air, his eyes landing on a particular silver-haired weather goddess. "Ahhh! X-Milf!" In one leap he launched himself like a monkey-shaped rocket toward her, arms wide open. Ororo didn't resist. Jack wrapped her in a dramatic, crushing hug. Ororo blinked, patting his back, half-relieved, half-annoyed. "You smell like a typhoon and rain," he whispered dramatically.
She sighed. "You always come back this extra?"
Jack released her, floating back with a grin. "You missed me. Don't lie." Then he looked around, rubbing his stomach. "…Sooo… tacos?"
The entire courtyard froze. This was the man who sealed the Phoenix Force and gift-bombed world leaders. Now returned from cosmic meditation. And all he wanted… was a taco. Only Jack Hou could make resurrection feel like recess.
…
Krakoa, once a passive island, now pulsed with a gentle hum. Flowers bloomed faster. Trees straightened like soldiers standing to attention. Somewhere deep within its jungles, a crackling burst of sound echoed.
A marble statue exploded into golden ichor and dust. From it emerged a barefoot figure in a yellow robe, his signature messy ponytail bobbing behind him, glowing eyes scanning his surroundings with divine indifference.
It was Jack Hou, or rather, one of his clones, now awakened. The clone stretched, cracked his knuckles, and looked up at the bioluminescent sky. He sniffed the air. "Still earthy. Still alive. Not bad."
Then. A wail, loud enough to make the birds scatter. "MASTEEEERRRR!!" Jack turned.
From the foliage, blooming like a flower in panic, came a vaguely humanoid shape formed entirely of vines and petals—Krakoa's flower form, now a more solidified botanical form, its facial features half-human, half-blossom. Petals flickered with faint glowing runes from Jack's earlier teachings. The moment it saw him, the creature pounced and hugged him tightly. "I MISSED YOU! I kept your statue clean every day! Polished it with morning dew! I even chased away that bird that tried to poop on you!"
Jack gave a flat look… and smiled. "Oh?" he said with a tilt of his head. "Such flattery won't save you from punishment, you know."
Krakoa's expression froze. "P-Punishment?"
Jack's clone gently pat its leafy shoulder. "I did say you've improved. You even got yourself a face now. I'm proud."
The Avatar blinked. "So… I pass?"
Jack's golden eyes narrowed. "I said I accept your progress. That means you passed my stated expectations."
A pause.
Jack then casually continued, "But as my disciple, you should've exceeded them. My stated expectations are meant to be half of what I truly want."
The silence hit like winter frost. "…Huh?"
"You should've had full control of the island by now, not just half. Tsk tsk."
A long pause. Krakoa gulped. "…You're serious?"
Jack gave a warm smile. "Always."
Then silence. Then—Krakoa bolted. "NONONONO I HATE YOUUUUU!!" The viney body sprinted into the jungle, scattering beetles and squirrels in its wake.
Jack clone blinked, crouched, then let out his signature cackle—"KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE!!"
With one bound, he shot after the fleeing form. "I WAS GONE FOR A LITTLE WHILE AND YOU SLACK OFF?!" he shouted, bounding across treetops.
"I KEPT YOU CLEAN!!" Krakoa screeched from ahead.
"AND YET YOU LET FISH PEE ON THE SHORE OF THE ISLAND?! I SAW IT IN THE DIVINE EYES!! KEKEKEKEKE"
The sound of leaves slapping. Vines swinging. Flowers shrieking in alarm. As Jack bounded forward, laughing like a wild child, he slapped passing trees playfully, sparking little bursts of qi in the foliage.
The entire living island began to thrum with laughter. Despite the chase, despite the chaos, the island was alive again. Master and Disciple—together once more.
…
Golden light from the last spring sun filtered through the windows of the rebuilt X-Mansion cafeteria. And at the center of it all, like a chaotic god come to life, sat Jack Hou—robe half-ripped, still covered in post-marble glowing ichor cracks, sitting cross-legged on top of a cafeteria table, surrounded by an absurd mountain of tacos. Meat. Lettuce. Shells. Salsa. Sour cream. The table was chaos incarnate.
"KEKEKEKEKEKEKE!" He cackled between bites, dual-fisting two overstuffed tacos like the apocalypse depended on his chewing speed. Around him, the X-Men stood frozen.
Bobby Drake blinked. "Is this really happening?"
Scott Summers didn't speak. His mouth was open, his visor locked in stunned disbelief.
Ororo Munroe just shook her head, arms crossed, trying not to smile.
Jack noticed their stares. With cheeks stuffed and sauce on his chin, he waved a taco at them. "What? Never seen a monkey eat a mountain of tacos before? Go watch a mukbang channel on YouTube or something! Stop staring at me, I'm so shy~!" Pause. "Alright, you got me. I LOVE the attention."
Still stunned silence… until—FLASH! A camera light went off. It was Jubilee, snapping a photo with her phone. The sudden flash momentarily stunned Jack mid-bite.
He blinked. Then grinned. "Hey, come here, sparkles." Jubilee cautiously approached, holding out her phone. Jack looked at the picture, still chewing. "Hmmm… Good angle. Upload it. Tag it with: #MonkeyBusiness."
Jubilee burst into giggles. A spark of electricity popped from her fingers involuntarily. That was the spark, literally and metaphorically. The Second Generation of X-Men, mostly students who had grown up hearing missions of the older team and the teachers, suddenly surged around him.
BAMF! Kurt Wagner, a.k.a. Nightcrawler, teleported in right next to him in a puff of sulfur. "How did you suddenly grow a tail?"
Jack licked taco juice from his fingers. "I dunno. Guess I've been monkeying around so much that my body just said, 'You know what? Screw it. Give the man a tail.'"
Jamie Madrox, the Multiple Man, raised a hand. "That's… not scientifically sound."
Jack nodded while stuffing another taco in his mouth. "Neither is your clone popping when you sneeze, Jamie. But hey, life's full of weird mechanics."
Jamie raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How do you do it, anyway? During the Phoenix battle… you made thousands of clones. That's insane. How do you even function like that?"
Jack paused mid-chew. Then shrugged. "Ah, that's my secret, kid. I don't feel the pain from my clones physically. No nerves. But emotionally? Oh yeah—I feel the drama. Every. Single. One. Of. Them."
The kids around him gasped. "Woah…" "That's kind of deep…" "Do they all think like you?" "No way, he's got distributed consciousness…"
Jack winked. "Distributed chaos. And no, they're not me. They're me as I was when I made them. Which means they're either drunk, confused, or hyper focused on revenge. Or all three."
That made everyone laugh—even some of the senior X-Men couldn't hide their grins.
Hisako Ichiki raised her hand. "Wait, do you name your clones?"
Jack pointed at her with a taco. "Great question. Yes. Usually based on what I was doing. One of them is named 'Laundry-Jack.' Another's 'T-Pose-Jack.' And there's one called 'Dumb-Jack,' but he is too dumb, so I benched him."
The second-gen X-Men broke into laughter. Then Jack stood—still holding a taco—and looked around. His tail swayed lazily behind him. Golden qi shimmered faintly off his skin. He was a mess. A hungry, loud, ridiculous god in tattered clothes.
But in that moment? The cafeteria, the school, the kids… all felt safer than ever. "Alright!" he shouted. "Next person who asks me a dumb question, I'll make you my new mount! KEKEKEKEKE!" Cue more laughter.
The Monkey King had returned. And nothing—not tacos, gods, or cosmic entities—was going to stop him from enjoying the ride.
**A/N**
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**A/N**