The final bell at Midtown School of Science and Technology shrieked through the hallways, a sound that, for most students, signaled a blessed release. For Alex, it was merely a transition from one form of tedious confinement to another. He slung his backpack, deceptively light considering the advanced tech and a few… other items packed within, over one shoulder and joined the human torrent flooding out of Mr. Harrison's AP Physics classroom. Mr. Harrison was still enthusiastically diagramming quark-gluon plasma on the whiteboard, oblivious to the mass exodus. Alex almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
It had been a year. Twelve long, strange, and infuriatingly bureaucratic months since the Alkali Lake facility had been transformed from a subterranean fortress of horrors into a churning, irradiated, and very permanent new body of water. A year since Stryker's genocidal ambitions had been… aggressively decommissioned.
As Alex navigated the crowded hallway, a familiar arm snaked around his neck from behind, pulling him into a loose, unwelcome headlock.
"Yo, Alex! My man! You coming to Leo's? They just dropped the new 'Galaxy Annihilators IV' expansion. Supposed to have that new Zorgonian Dreadnought class everyone's been hyping!"
Alex expertly untangled himself from Mark Chandler's enthusiastic embrace, a practiced move that involved a subtle shift of balance and a precise application of leverage that Mark, for all his jockish energy, never seemed to anticipate. He sidestepped, putting a comfortable three feet between them.
"Mark, how many times do I have to tell you? Personal space. And lose the 'bro-hug-from-behind' ambush tactic. It's not charming; it's a lawsuit waiting to happen." Alex's voice was calm, almost bored, but with an underlying edge that usually made even Mark pause. "And no, I can't. Got… stuff."
Mark, a lanky kid with a shock of perpetually messy brown hair and an infectious, if sometimes oblivious, grin, just bounced on the balls of his feet, undeterred. "Stuff? Dude, 'stuff' is what you say when you're ditching your best bud for, like, a hot date. You got a hot date, Alex? Spill! Is it Sarah? I saw you guys talking by the lockers—"
"It's not Sarah," Alex cut him off, a hint of exasperation creeping in. "And it's not a date. It's actual, important stuff. World-altering, potentially. You know, the usual." He started walking towards the school exit, Mark easily falling into step beside him.
"Oh, right, your 'mysterious international business conglomerate' stuff," Mark said, making air quotes. "Seriously, man, one of these days you gotta tell me what your parents actually do. Are they, like, super spies? Arms dealers? Competitive cheese rollers? The suspense is killing me."
Alex almost smiled. Mark's relentless, good-natured idiocy was, in its own strange way, a bizarre anchor to a semblance of normalcy he was supposed to be cultivating. "Something like that. Less cheese, more… resource management on a global scale."
That was one way to put it. The truth was, the year since Alkali Lake had been a relentless, grinding education in the infuriating complexities of human politics and the sheer, stubborn refusal of the world to operate logically. The devastation at Alkali Lake hadn't been something the U.S. government could sweep under the rug. The energy signatures, the seismic activity, the sheer, unadulterated violence of that day had been comparable to a localized nuclear event. That patch of Canadian wilderness was now a no-go zone, permanently irradiated and unstable, a stark, undeniable testament to the power unleashed. The loss of military hardware—tanks, jets, experimental weaponry—had been catastrophic. The death toll among Ross's forces, including Task Force X, had been staggering.
And then the news had leaked. Not all of it, not the Decepticons or Mega Mewtwo Y, thank whatever cosmic entity was listening for small mercies. But enough. Enough about a secret military facility conducting horrific experiments on mutants. Enough about a genocidal plan targeting an entire segment of the population. Enough about the U.S. government losing control so spectacularly. Public outrage, when it finally ignited, had been a firestorm. Even in a world increasingly wary of mutants, the revelations of government-sanctioned torture, especially of children, had struck a raw nerve. The fact that human weapons had proven so utterly inadequate against the power displayed at Alkali (even the sanitized, heavily redacted versions of the events that made it to the public) had also sent a fresh wave of insecurity and fear rippling through the global populace.
To rub salt into humanity's already festering wounds, some of the more… emboldened mutant factions, likely remnants of the Brotherhood or newer, more radical groups, had leaked information about a hidden, thriving mutant nation in Antarctica. Suddenly, the "Antarctic Anomaly," the region the World Tree had shielded, had a name, a population, and a terrifying reputation.
The U.S. President at the time, a man whose political career had been built on a platform of strong national defense, found himself buried under an avalanche of blame, international condemnation, and domestic unrest. He couldn't counter it. How could he explain the inexplicable? How could he justify the unjustifiable?
"So, seriously, no 'Galaxy Annihilators'?" Mark pressed, oblivious to Alex's dark internal monologue. "Not even for an hour? Mike and Dave are gonna be there. We could totally own the noobs."
"Maybe next time, Mark," Alex said, his gaze distant. "I really do have… a board meeting." He wasn't entirely lying. The Council of Aethelgard—the new name bestowed upon the Sanctuary, meaning 'Noble Protection' in an archaic tongue the World Tree seemed to favor—did indeed have pressing matters to discuss.
The United States, desperate to regain some semblance of control and international standing, had called for an emergency UN summit. And, in a move that had Alex simultaneously scoffing and marveling at human audacity, an official invitation had been extended to the "Sovereign Nation of Aethelgard"… via a public television broadcast, as they had no other means of contact.
"When the World Tree's avatar first suggested we needed to 'talk things out' with the humans, make some 'rules of engagement'," Alex thought, a wry internal grimace twisting his features, "I was actually ready for it. After Alkali, I figured a show of overwhelming, terrifying power, followed by a list of non-negotiable demands, was the way to go. Quick. Efficient. Understandable."
But the World Tree, in its ancient, infuriating wisdom, had counseled patience. "They are sending emissaries of words, Alexander, not warriors of steel," its avatar had rumbled, its voice like the shifting of continents. "To meet their fear with overwhelming force is to confirm their darkest assumptions. You are the protector of Aethelgard, its first voice. But a true King knows when to unleash the storm, and when to speak with the calm that stills it. They perceive you as a living weapon, a force comparable to their most devastating armaments. To send you as our first envoy would be seen as an act of aggression, not an overture to peace, no matter your intent."
Alex had argued, of course. "A nuke doesn't negotiate, it dictates. And right now, that's the only language they seem to understand. Besides, what's the difference? They already think I'm a monster."
The avatar had been unyielding. "There is a vast difference between a deterrent and a declaration of war. You have shown them your power. Now, allow them to witness our capacity for reason."
So, Alex had been held back. Aethelgard had sent a delegation of its most articulate, composed, and (crucially, from Alex's perspective) least overtly terrifying residents. The negotiations had dragged on for months. Months of posturing, of accusations, of humans trying to dictate terms to a nation they couldn't find, couldn't touch, and certainly couldn't intimidate. Alex had wanted to teleport into the UN chamber as Megatron and simply present their terms. The World Tree had… strongly advised against it.
"What kind of negotiations and international laws take months to pass?" Alex fumed internally, even now. "And then they have the audacity to call it the 'fastest ratification of inter-species accords in recorded history.' Yeah, because the alternative was me showing up and 'negotiating' with a fusion cannon."
But, grudgingly, he had to admit the outcome wasn't entirely terrible. Aethelgard was now officially recognized by a majority of UN member states as a sovereign nation. It was open for limited trade – primarily in unique, sustainably harvested Antarctic resources (rare minerals found beneath the ice, extremophile compounds with incredible scientific potential, even limited supplies of the World Tree's own non-sentient byproduct, a wood of unparalleled strength and beauty). This, in turn, was creating jobs and purpose within Aethelgard for mutants whose abilities weren't combat-oriented. Not everyone could be a warrior or a high-level energy manipulator. Some mutants just wanted to be geologists, or artisans, or, like Mark, just play video games.
Civilian access to Aethelgard, of course, was strictly denied for the foreseeable future. The shield remained impenetrable. But the accords were a start. Mutants, at least in signatory nations, now had internationally recognized rights. They couldn't be hunted, experimented on, or detained without due process involving Aethelgard's oversight. Schools were being established, funded by Aethelgard's resource trade, in various countries to help young mutants control their powers.
And then there were the laws specifically concerning him. Alex, the individual, was now subject to a unique set of international restrictions. He was, in essence, classified as a weapon of mass destruction. The use of any of his forms deemed capable of "nuclear-level devastation"—a list that was still being contentiously debated but definitely included Mewtwo, and the entirety of the Decepticon armada—was strictly prohibited within the territories of signatory nations unless a formal request was made by that nation's government through Aethelgard's diplomatic channels, and only in response to an existential threat. His Mewtwo form, specifically, was "not permitted entry into the sovereign airspace or territory of the United States of America under any circumstances without express Presidential and Congressional approval," a clause Alex found particularly amusing.
"Like a damn no-fly zone for my own head," he thought.
After the accords were signed, after the initial flurry of diplomatic activity and the establishment of Aethelgard's off-Sanctuary embassy (a heavily fortified, World Tree-grown structure in neutral Geneva), the Tree's avatar had delivered its next bombshell.
"Alexander," it had said, its amber eyes glowing with that infuriatingly calm wisdom, "you have built a nation. You have secured its borders. You have even, reluctantly, engaged in the messy art of human diplomacy. But you are still, by the reckoning of your own species, a child. You have missed years of education, of social development, of simply… being. At your age, you should be in school. Learning. Experiencing the world not as a battlefield, but as a place of discovery."
Alex had stared at the avatar as if it had sprouted a second head made of squirrels. "School? You want me to go to high school? Are you insane? I run a nation! I command dragons! I can turn into a planet-destroying robot!"
"And yet," the avatar had replied, unperturbed, "you struggle to understand the motivations of a simple human politician, and your idea of negotiation involves vaporizing conference tables. There are forms of power, Alexander, that cannot be found in the heart of a star or the fist of a titan. Knowledge. Empathy. Understanding. These too are strengths. Besides," a hint of something that might have been dryad humor entered its voice, "Aethelgard also needs to establish economic ties, to build businesses, to manage the resources we now trade. You have a keen mind for strategy, for systems. Apply it. Learn the world of human commerce. It will be… illuminating."
And so, after much back-and-forth, much grumbling, and a few veiled threats involving strategically placed meteor strikes (from Alex) and the withholding of essential life-sustaining Tree-energies (from the Avatar, which was a low blow, Alex felt), a compromise had been reached. Alex would attend a prestigious high school in the United States to gain a "normal" education and, concurrently, establish and oversee Aethelgard's primary international trading corporation.
He'd initially considered setting up in the UK, somewhere with decent tea and less overt paranoia. But then, the new President of the United States, Donald Trump, had gotten wind of it. Trump, who had ridden into office on a wave of post-Alkali Lake fear and a promise to "Make America Safe and Strong Again" (which apparently involved both cracking down on "rogue mutants" and simultaneously trying to exploit any advantage they offered), had seen an opportunity.
The meeting with Trump had been… surreal. Alex had expected bluster, threats, perhaps even a poorly concealed attempt to capture him. Instead, he'd found a man who was, above all else, a businessman. Trump hadn't given two flying figs about the mutant-human ideological struggle, about Xavier's dreams or Magneto's crusades. He'd seen Aethelgard's resource potential, Alex's reported intellect, and the sheer, undeniable power Alex represented, and he'd seen profit. Massive, world-altering profit. And political capital.
"This guy," Alex recalled thinking as Trump offered him unprecedented tax cuts, prime real estate for his corporate headquarters in New York, and a surprisingly hands-off approach to Aethelgard's internal affairs, "he'd sell his own grandmother if the price was right and it got him good press. He doesn't care if I'm a mutant, a demon, or a particularly intelligent houseplant, as long as I bring money and jobs to America, and maybe make him look good for 'brokering peace with the new mutant superpower'."
So, AlexCorp International was born in New York City. And Alex, the reluctant king, the interdimensional warrior, the boy who had never really been a boy, found himself walking the halls of Midtown High.
As a "gift" of goodwill, a token of Aethelgard's willingness to engage, Alex had arranged for a rather unique present to be delivered to the American government. One of the younger dryad children, Lyra, who had a peculiar fondness for exploring the deepest, coldest ice caverns at the fringes of the Sanctuary, had stumbled upon something remarkable during her play. She'd been trying to lick a particularly large, unusually clear block of ancient ice, convinced it was a giant, meat-flavored popsicle, when the shimmering within had caught her eye. The elder dryads, alerted by her excited chattering, had investigated and found, perfectly preserved, a man in a ridiculous star-spangled uniform, frozen mid-stride, a circular shield clutched in his hand. Captain America. The World Tree's deep-reaching roots had apparently located and gently… relocated… the long-lost relic from his original icy tomb. Alex hadn't met him yet; Rogers was still being carefully thawed and debriefed by SHIELD (or what was left of it after Stryker and Ross's unsanctioned operations had been exposed). The irony of Aethelgard gifting America back its greatest hero was not lost on Alex.
They reached the school gates. A sleek, black, ridiculously expensive-looking car with tinted windows was waiting at the curb, a silent, imposing statement of wealth and power. The driver, a stern-faced woman with eyes that missed nothing, stepped out and opened the rear door.
"Later, Mark," Alex said, already moving towards the car.
"Dude, wait up!" Mark jogged to catch him. "If you're not doing anything super important, maybe you could swing by Leo's after your 'board meeting'? I'll save you a controller. The Zorgonian Dreadnought awaits!"
Alex paused, his hand on the car door. He looked at Mark's hopeful, oblivious face. For a moment, just a fleeting instant, he almost considered it. A few hours of mindless button-mashing, of friendly trash talk, of being just another kid.
"Maybe," Alex said, the word noncommittal. He got into the car. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud.
As the car pulled smoothly away from the curb, leaving Mark waving enthusiastically on the sidewalk, Alex leaned back against the plush leather seats. The world outside the tinted windows seemed to blur, the mundane reality of high school receding. It was a strange, bifurcated existence. Teenager by day, reluctant ruler and interdimensional guardian by… well, also by day, and most nights too.
The public, at least, was starting to feel a little safer, a little more hopeful, not because of him or the precarious peace accords, but because of another figure who had recently stepped into the light. Tony Stark. The billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist had, in a move of characteristic flamboyant arrogance, declared to the world, "I am Iron Man." A human hero. A symbol of human ingenuity and power. It gave them something to rally around, a counterpoint to the fear of the unknown that mutants represented. Alex found it grimly amusing. Humans needed their own shiny toys, their own champions, to feel secure. Let them have their Iron Man. It kept them distracted. For now.
The car sped towards Manhattan, towards AlexCorp's gleaming skyscraper headquarters, towards the endless meetings, the strategic planning, the constant vigilance required to keep his people safe in a world that was still, at its heart, terrified of them. School was just another battlefield, albeit one fought with social cliques and pop quizzes instead of energy blasts and alien armies. And Alex, as always, was determined to win.
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