"Homelander, we can't take you back directly from here. Time travel isn't like hailing a cab—the quantum tunnel's programming is preset."

Tony wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth, his fingers lingering for a second as if checking whether the injury was worse than it felt. His voice carried that particular brand of weary sarcasm he reserved for moments when he was explaining cutting-edge science to people who still thought "turning it off and on again" was advanced troubleshooting.

"You'll need to wait here while Steve and I return to modify the settings. But don't worry—we'll set the retrieval timestamp for this exact moment."

From the pocket of his suit, he produced a vial of faintly pulsing particles. Each mote glimmered like a firefly caught in amber, swirling lazily as though it had a mind of its own.

"Hold onto this Pym Particle. The machine will lock onto its signature and pull you through."

Alex took the vial between his fingers, the glass cool and unnervingly fragile, like holding a piece of crystallized lightning.

So this was the miracle fuel that powered time heists—tiny, glowing specks that could bend the universe to their will.

(Though he couldn't stop a mental scoff—in the movies, Thanos had somehow transported an entire army with just one dose. Plot holes the size of a black hole.)

"Understood." He slid the vial into a secure inner pocket, as if even the air might try to snatch it away.

Steve leaned closer, his blue eyes sharpened with the kind of seriousness that made lesser men sit up straighter. "This is critical. Lose it, and there's no second chance."

"I said understood."

The clipped tone was enough to make it clear Alex wasn't in need of a Boy Scout safety lecture.

Just as Tony pushed himself up from the chair, Magneto raised a single gloved hand.

"Wait." The word cut across the room like the crack of a whip. "If no time passes in your present during this trip, why rush?"

His eyes gleamed—not with curiosity, but the keen glint of a man already assembling the chessboard three moves ahead.

"We have living encyclopedias from the future right here. It would be... wasteful not to mine them for information."

Charles's expression brightened instantly, his nod carrying a barely restrained eagerness. This was knowledge he could fold into his plans, knowledge that might avert—or cause—entire futures.

Tony exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between a groan and a laugh, but dropped back into his seat with a lazy sprawl.

"Fine. But make it quick. I'd kill for a '60s cheeseburger anyway."

---

Dining Hall – One Hour Later

The long table was scattered with the remains of a meal—plates pushed aside, wine glasses half-full, and steam curling faintly from forgotten coffee cups.

At first, the mood had been buoyant, almost convivial. The future was a mystery to poke and prod at, an impossible story unfolding from Steve's calm, deliberate voice.

Then the stories had darkened, and so had the air in the room.

"1965—the Vietnam War escalates. Mutants get drafted, though your people here stay protected."

A few faces twitched—relief and guilt blending in equal measure.

"Sometime in the 80s, Homelander battles Apocalypse in Cairo. Half the city gets leveled before Apocalypse falls."

Gasps rippled down the table. The clink of silverware stilled.

"Then Namor floods the ruins trying to drown Homelander—fails, but drowns thousands of civilians instead—"

"Hold up. Namor?"

Alex's interruption cut clean through the grim recitation, his voice carrying an edge sharp enough to still conversation. Forks clattered against plates as several people froze mid-motion.

Raven's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell is Namor?"

The question drew a ring of blank stares around the table—mutants and allies alike exchanging looks, silently confirming none of them had even heard the name before.

"Why is it that Homelander knows everything while you all know nothing?" Tony muttered under his breath, though it wasn't quite low enough to be missed.

"Atlantean king," Alex said before Steve could even open his mouth, the answer crisp and certain. "Ruler of an underwater empire."

"There's a kingdom under the ocean?" Hank's incredulous tone was followed by a brief fit of coughing as he nearly inhaled his wine.

Emma's fingers curled, nails scraping faintly against the polished table. "Why would this Namor attack Alex?"

"Pawn in Mister Sinister's game," Steve said, his voice a shade darker now.

The name didn't just land—it detonated.

"Sinister? But he's dead!" Scott's protest was almost a plea, the kind of denial that comes from needing something to remain true.

Every gaze turned toward Alex, the weight of their suspicion and unease settling on him like a physical pressure.

Had the immortal geneticist somehow survived being reduced to nothing more than gore and dust?

Alex's fingers tightened around the stem of his glass until the crystal creaked in warning.

I turned that bastard into chum. How?

The question hung unanswered, heavy as the silence that followed.

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