Marvel: Starting with the Homelander Template

Jean Grey sat across from them in the modest living room, her legs crossed neatly, posture impossibly still. The sunlight filtering through the curtains touched her hair, making the faint red strands gleam like copper fire.

Despite being barely into her teens, the way she held herself made her seem older—mature beyond her years. Not with the confidence of arrogance, but with the heavy stillness of someone who had seen things no child should.

There was no nervous fidgeting, no darting eyes. Just a calm, assessing gaze, sweeping over the three most powerful mutants on the planet like she already knew what they were made of.

Her attention stopped on Alex.

"I know who you are," she said plainly, her voice steady. There was no awe in it—just certainty. "You led the mutants when the aliens invaded. You fought back and won. And you..."—her gaze flicked to Charles—"they call you the strongest mutant alive."

Alex didn't respond with pride or denial. He simply offered her a faint, unreadable smile.

Charles leaned forward, tone gentle. "Yes, Jean. We're mutants too. Just like you. We came because we want to help."

But Jean didn't care for soft reassurances.

Even as she listened, her mind stretched outward—reflexively, instinctively—reaching toward theirs like curious fingers brushing glass.

And then her expression faltered.

She felt nothing.

A wall—impenetrable, absolute—stood between her and their thoughts. It was like trying to look into a mirror and seeing nothing but smoke.

"Jean," Charles' voice echoed within her mind, warm yet firm, "reading others without permission isn't polite. We're here to talk—not pry."

Startled, Jean blinked. Her defenses twitched up unconsciously, but she didn't apologize. She wasn't used to being blocked. Wasn't used to being outmatched.

Erik leaned forward, seizing the moment with a sharper edge.

"Your parents don't understand you. They think your power is an illness. Something to be hidden. Something to be cured. But they're wrong."

His eyes were fierce, burning with the conviction of someone who'd lived through generations of persecution.

"You're not broken, Jean. You're gifted. You belong with us—with people who understand."

Jean's lips quirked upward—not kindly, not gratefully. Her smirk was cutting.

"You think you understand me? Really?"

Then she exhaled.

And outside—

BOOM. WHOOM.

The calm suburban street exploded into chaos.

All at once, dozens of parked cars—from driveways, from curbsides, from down the block—lifted into the air, their wheels dangling helplessly as they rose like leaves in a gale.

Thirty vehicles hovered silently, ominously, trembling under the strain of her power.

The room vibrated. The furniture shuddered. The air felt heavy—charged with invisible force.

Erik's brows shot up.

"Well," he muttered to Charles, "she does have flair."

Alex's eyes remained fixed on the display, studying not just the power, but the subtle precision in the chaos.

"Impressive," he admitted after a long pause.

For someone so young to exhibit this degree of raw telekinesis… it bordered on terrifying. Even Erik, in his prime, couldn't have lifted and held that many large objects simultaneously without strain.

"Charles, Alex—I like this girl," Erik said quietly, half in admiration, half in caution. "She's got fire."

"Jean," Charles spoke with measured calm, "you have more power than you realize. But the question you need to ask yourself is this—do you control that power? Or does it control you?"

Jean's eyes glinted at the challenge.

"And what about you?" she countered, locking eyes with Alex. "Do you control yours, or are you just good at pretending?"

Alex chuckled softly, amused more than offended.

Then, with a subtle flick of his fingers—

CRASH. SCREECH. WHIRRR.

The cars outside, still suspended in Jean's psychic grip, began to twist and shift.

Not chaotically—elegantly.

They moved like puppets under his unseen strings, breaking free from Jean's hold and sliding into perfectly synchronized formations.

A spiral. A helix. A five-pointed star.

The vehicles spun around one another, metal gleaming in the sunlight, until the sky above the house was a canvas of motion and artistry.

A stunning display—not just of power, but of complete and effortless mastery.

Jean's jaw clenched. Her smirk vanished.

This wasn't brute strength.

This was finesse. This was control.

"Alex," Erik breathed, stunned. "I didn't know you could do that."

"Charles trained me too," Alex replied, calm and relaxed as ever.

Charles didn't miss the subtle shift in Jean's posture—the small flicker of respect in her eyes.

He seized the opportunity.

"Jean," he said, "I run a school. A place for mutants like us to grow, to learn—together. I believe it's where you belong. Not locked away. Not feared. But understood."

Jean studied him for a long moment. Then she turned to Alex again.

"Do you go there?"

"I did," Alex said, grinning. "Graduated a while ago. But trust me, if you join—you'll probably break all my records."

For the first time, Jean looked unsure.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Fine. I'll go."

Charles finally let out a breath. The tension in his shoulders eased.

---

Later, in the car, on the road back to the mansion

The hum of tires on asphalt filled the silence.

"Charles," Erik said after a while, "her potential is… greater than even I imagined. Are you absolutely certain you can teach her?"

Charles didn't answer immediately. He stared out the window, his fingers steepled against his lips.

"I'm not here to control her, Erik," he said softly. "I'm here to help her control herself."

But deep in his heart, beneath all his certainty and calm, a shadow of unease had taken root.

Because the power inside Jean—

It wasn't just mutant.

It was something older.

Something vast. Something that watched from behind her eyes.

Something that felt like it had been waiting.

Waiting for the right moment to rise.

And Charles wasn't sure if any of them—not even Alex—could stop it once it did.

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