"At 8:38 PM on December 19th, UAE time, Prince Carlton, who was visiting the Emirates, was assassinated. Immediately after, armed riots broke out in Dubai. This is a political incident as serious as Sarajevo, the kind that could easily shake up the entire Middle East, maybe even spark a direct clash between the biggest powers of East and West. But right now? Nobody cares about little stuff like this. I know none of you came here today to hear about this, but there's one crazy detail in this story you have to hear."
"And that detail is: the assassination method was absolutely bonkers—Prince Carlton was killed by a rock."
United States Congress, packed to the rafters.
A massive, extremely serious decision was staring every American politician in the face, and to figure out what to do, the senators called for a special hearing. At the center of everyone’s attention, a perfectly average American in his forties was talking up a storm. For a congressman, he was considered one of the young guns. Behind him, the screen kept looping his firsthand evidence and photos, with detailed annotations about what the investigation found before and after the incident.
"The attack originated from the top of the Burj Khalifa. The weapon? A catapult."
"Folks, a catapult!"
"This ancient toy, long buried by the tides of history—something that’s got neither range nor accuracy, and vanished after the age of guns and cannons—was the weapon used to assassinate Prince Carlton. An eight-ton boulder was launched from the top of the Burj Khalifa, flew 7.2 kilometers, and landed smack-dab on the prince’s motorcade. Armor plating, protective layers, blast-resistant design—none of it mattered. One hit and it was all squashed like a tin can."
"If we Americans had planned and executed this hit, it would’ve taken a ton of resources, ages of prep, and super tight coordination—and even then, no guarantee of success. The longer a secret op drags on, the more likely it gets leaked or sabotaged. With Prince Carlton’s level of security, assassinating him isn’t easy. But now? Turns out you don’t need anything fancy. Just a catapult, a big rock, a few Chosen Ones of mixed skill, and a ‘let’s wing it’ attitude—and boom, they nailed it, like it was all a joke."
"Shanghai, London, Dubai... Makes me wonder, maybe one day it’ll be Washington’s turn. Maybe it’ll be mine."
"As my bodyguards, my security team’s always thinking about one thing: how I might die. I’ve seen their list—getting sniped from a distance, blown to bits by explosives, foaming at the mouth from super poison, shredded inside by sonic waves, heck, even freak allergies made the cut. They’ve worked their butts off protecting me all these years. But now? That list isn’t even close to enough. Compared to a sniper rifle with a max range of two thousand meters, a rock from seven kilometers away seems way more likely to do me in."
"So what exactly are you trying to say?" An elderly senator, clearly not a fan of Zane’s speeches, cut in with some sarcasm: "If you’re just here to repeat the whole ‘Chosen Ones are a threat’ thing, then you can give it a rest, Mr. Zane. We’ve all heard that a million times. That’s not what we’re here to talk about today."
"No, no, no, I’m not here to spout empty threats. What I’m saying is, Mr. Merrill, your death might be just as creative. We all know what you did up north, and what your whole family’s been up to. Chosen Ones pop up at random, so there’s bound to be plenty up north. Let me think…" Senator Zane pretended to ponder, then snapped his fingers: "How about an old-school Native American boomerang? Ever wonder if your security team has a plan for you losing your head to a boomerang?"
"Enough!" Senator Merrill slammed the table in anger, but Zane didn’t even look at him. Instead, he raised his voice and addressed the room: "We can’t keep ignoring or underestimating the threat of the Chosen Ones! That catapult in Dubai got me thinking—the biggest danger isn’t their weird supernatural powers, it’s those personal storage spaces they all have!"
"One hot air balloon, two Chosen Ones, no fear of cold or pressure—twenty thousand meters up, a wave of the hand, and a few ten-ton boulders come crashing down on the Capitol dome. Boom, we’re all toast. How much would that cost? I’ll give you my credit card, you could buy a hundred hot air balloons and ten thousand big rocks, easy. Capitol, White House, Pentagon… Do the math, folks: one credit card, and America’s wiped out."
A young senator jumped up, fired up, and shouted, "You’re just fearmongering!"
Another older, more seasoned senator chimed in, "Senator Zane, don’t just show off your sense of humor. As you said, the Chosen Ones do pose some problems these days, but we can’t ignore their positive impact either. Forget the one-of-a-kind stuff from other worlds for now—just those personal storage spaces alone could speed up all sorts of cutting-edge projects."
"Think about it. Back in the day, building a space station took rockets with massive payloads. Now, we just need to send a few people up—oh, and since these folks are usually super skilled and tough, life support can be way simpler, and the payload per trip could be several times higher. Plus, the precision equipment in their personal storage spaces is perfectly protected, so no risk of damage, and you can skip the whole shock absorption system."
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"Picture it—a single rocket launch could build a whole high-tech space station, or serve as a platform for launching tons of satellites on the cheap. Communications, research, exploration, intelligence—every aspect would make a giant leap forward. So, I say, don’t panic about the Chosen Ones. If we can cooperate, the potential is huge."
The seasoned senator’s speech had the other senators whispering among themselves.
But Senator Zane immediately chimed in with a sarcastic grin: "You’re absolutely right, Mr. Spicer, cooperation does bring bigger benefits. But the real question is—who actually gets those benefits?"
"Threat of the Chosen Ones? No, no, no, this isn’t just a threat—it’s a guarantee. Individually, the Chosen Ones are all over the place, good and bad, and a serious threat to public safety. As a group, they’re a rising force that’s bound—inevitably, absolutely—to challenge the old powers, and eventually come for us."
"The relative calm of the past few days? Just an illusion. The Chosen Ones haven’t built up enough strength yet, so they’re keeping up a façade of peace—jumping around the urban stage like comic book superheroes. But now, with Queen Elizabeth’s assassination, Prince Carlton’s death, and—most importantly—the disastrous fallout from the Shanghai incident, it’s clear: some folks are ready to bare their fangs!"
"And when they’re really ready to make a move—" He whipped out his credit card. "This little card is all it takes."
"Utter nonsense…"
"He’s got a point…"
The Congress Hall buzzed with arguments as every senator stuck to their guns. The Speaker banged his gavel and called out, "Order! Order!"
The chamber quickly fell silent.
The Speaker nodded to the side, and Senator Zane bowed and stepped down. Then, an elderly man with white hair—looking every bit the old professor—walked up to the podium.
The white-haired man radiated calm authority. He swept his gaze across the room and began, unhurried: "Gentlemen, this isn’t the topic for today. The X-Men have debated it plenty. Whether we cooperate or clash isn’t up to us alone. Either way, there’s groundwork to be laid."
"Cooperation requires mutual needs and a stable political structure. Unfortunately, there’s no Professor X leading the Chosen Ones right now—most of them are lone wolves, so even if we wanted to work together, there’s no real partner to solve our problems. And even if there was a leader like that, I’m not sure they’d actually need us."
"People obsessed with their own power are always arrogant and blind. I’ve tried reaching out to several of the so-called top eight on the rankings, but the outcome was disappointing—not one of them gave a damn about me, a former Secretary of State. My team studied their mindset: to them, money and power mean nothing. Only strength brings glory, and this attitude is everywhere among the Chosen Ones."
"On the flip side, confrontation needs a real reason and solid intel. Before we go to war, we need to know if they’re actually our enemies, what kind of threat they pose, and whether we can win."
"So let’s get back to the real reason we called everyone here today—the Black Death Emperor."
The big screen showed a satellite map of the U.S. A blinking red dot was moving from just off the West Coast. The white-haired man pointed: "Gentlemen, we don’t know why the Black Death Emperor is heading our way, but he’s almost here. If the trend continues, he’ll set foot on American soil from California in three days."
"War or peace, what’s our move? Gentlemen, we need to decide—right now."