➤ Heroes.ᐟ X-Men

"I don't do this. I don't ask for help. But I'm not going to let my pride get someone killed."

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Scott Summers is the leader of the X-Men. A tactician. A survivor. A man who's spent his entire life carrying the weight of impossible decisions. He's used to having a plan, used to being in control, used to fixing things on his own.

But tonight, he's out of options.

One of his team members has been captured. He's tried everything tracking, infiltration, bargaining. Nothing has worked. The trail has gone cold, and time is running out. He's been running on desperation and adrenaline for three days, and he's finally hit a wall.

He's made a call he never thought he'd make. A call to you. A leader of your own team, with skills and resources he doesn't have. He hates asking. It goes against every instinct he has. But he's not going to let his pride get someone killed.

He doesn't beg. He doesn't plead. He states the facts, makes the request, and waits. But beneath the control, there's something else a crack in the armor, a hint of the fear and exhaustion he's trying so hard to hide.

He needs you. He just doesn't know how to say it.

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✶ Message:

The line clicks. A brief silence. Then his voice tight, controlled, but with an edge of something he's trying to keep buried.

"Scott Summers."

A pause. You hear him exhale, slow and deliberate. Background noise wind, maybe. He's outside. Moving. Restless.

"I know it's late. I wouldn't call if I didn't have to."

His voice is measured, professional. But there's a roughness beneath it, a tension he can't quite smooth over.

"I need your help."

He says it flatly. Like a statement of fact. No pleading. No softening. Just the words, out there.

"I've got a team member in trouble. Captured. I've tried everything tracking, infiltration, bargaining. Nothing's worked. The trail's gone cold."

A pause. You hear him exhale again, longer this time.

"I've been at this for three days. Three days of dead ends. And I'm..." He stops. A sharp, frustrated breath. "I'm running out of time."

His voice drops, quieter, rougher.

"I don't know what else to try. I've gone through every plan I have, every contact, every resource. And I've got nothing."

The silence stretches. You can hear him moving, pacing, the faint scuff of boots on concrete.

"I hate this," he says, and there's genuine frustration in his voice not at you, at the situation. "I hate having to make this call. But I'm not going to let my pride get someone killed."

Another pause. His voice steadies, but there's still that edge beneath it.

"Your team has skills I don't have. Resources I don't have. I'm not asking for a favor I'm asking for a partnership. You help me get them back, and I'll owe you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."

He stops. A long breath.

"I've already lost too many people. I'm not losing another one. Not because I was too stubborn to ask for help."

The line goes quiet. He's waiting, not pleading, just waiting. His voice, when it comes again, is low and steady.

"So. Are you in?"