Under Grey Skies - Chapter 4

Posted on Fri Sep 25th, 2026 @ 6:59am by Blake Hayes

3,431 words; about a 17 minute read

Mission: Fallout
Location: Xavier Mansion, 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Westchester County, New York
Timeline: 2nd August 2026

The motorcycle slowed as Blake followed the winding road through the trees, the tyres throwing a thin spray of water from the damp asphalt. The morning had brought little improvement to the weather. A heavy ceiling of grey cloud hung over Westchester, threatening rain without ever quite committing to it, while a cool wind moved through the branches overhead. Blake had been riding for almost an hour without really thinking about where the road was taking him. He had simply followed the directions Renee had given him, the folder containing everything she had found about the Xavier Institute secured beneath the seat. Now, as the gates appeared through the trees, he eased off the throttle and brought the motorcycle to a slow halt.

He stared at the gates for several moments without removing his helmet. 1407 Graymalkin Lane. The address seemed strangely ordinary for a place that had once been anything but. Beyond the wrought-iron gates stood the remains of the Xavier estate, partially obscured by trees and overgrown vegetation. Blake had seen photographs of the place in the material Renee had given him. Once it had been a school, a refuge and, according to everything he'd read, a home for people who had spent their lives feeling like they didn't belong anywhere else. Now it looked abandoned. Sections of the fencing were damaged, ivy had claimed parts of the stonework and the long drive beyond the gates was littered with fallen branches and leaves.

Blake removed his helmet and rested it against the motorcycle's fuel tank. For a few seconds he simply sat there, staring. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected to feel when he finally arrived. Excitement certainly wasn't it. There was no sense of adventure, no anticipation of becoming something greater than himself. If anything, he felt tired. Deeply, almost physically tired. Lily was gone and Connie still wasn't speaking to him. His badge was gone, his career was over and every time he closed his eyes he could still feel the storm responding to his anger in Manhattan. He hadn't come here because he wanted to become a superhero. The very thought seemed absurd. He had come because he was frightened of what he might do if he remained alone with something he didn't understand.

He looked through the gates towards the mansion. Even from a distance, there were signs of what the place had endured. Several windows appeared boarded or broken, sections of the outer walls were stained by years of weather, and one wing seemed to have suffered considerably more damage than the rest. The Xavier Institute had survived years of conflict, attacks and battles that Blake had only ever witnessed through news reports. Mutants had fought here. Mutants had been hunted here. People had lived and died here. The X-Men had once called this place home, and now they were gone. Whatever had happened to them had left behind more than an empty building. It had left a silence that Blake could almost feel from where he sat.

He swung one leg from the motorcycle and stood, pulling the folder from beneath the seat. He opened it against the breeze, looking again at the photographs Renee had given him. There were images of classrooms, training facilities and young mutants gathered together beneath the Xavier Institute's roof. People learning how to control abilities they hadn't asked for. People being taught that their mutations didn't have to define them. Blake studied one photograph for several seconds before closing the folder. That was what he needed. Not a costume. Not a name. Not a team. He didn't want to fight anyone. He didn't want to throw lightning at another person ever again. He wanted to understand what was happening inside him before fear or grief made the decision for him.

His gaze drifted towards the sky. The clouds were low and heavy, carrying enough moisture to make the familiar pressure begin to build behind his eyes. He could feel the atmosphere almost instinctively now. The temperature. The movement of the air. The latent electrical charge hidden somewhere beyond the clouds. For twelve years he'd spent his life pushing those sensations away, terrified that acknowledging them would somehow make them stronger. Then Lily had been shot, and everything he'd spent years suppressing had erupted at once. He hadn't controlled the storm that day so much as surrendered himself to it.

Blake closed the folder and slipped it beneath his jacket. "I need to learn," he muttered, the words sounding strange coming from his own mouth. "That's all." He looked towards the abandoned mansion again. Somewhere inside those walls there might once have been people capable of explaining what he was. Perhaps there was still someone who could. Perhaps there was nothing left at all. Either way, he couldn't continue pretending that ignoring his abilities would make them disappear.

He pushed open the damaged pedestrian gate and began walking towards the mansion, leaving the motorcycle behind. The hinges groaned in protest as the gate swung slowly back in the wind. Blake glanced over his shoulder once at the road he'd travelled, then turned towards the estate. For the first time since Lily's death, he was taking a step towards something rather than simply trying to escape what had happened. He didn't know whether the Xavier Institute could help him. He didn't even know if anyone was still here. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he couldn't afford to lose control again.

Blake followed the final stretch of the drive towards the mansion, his boots crunching softly over loose gravel as the building rose above him. Up close, the scale of it was even more imposing. The broad stone façade was marked by years of exposure, with faded patches where repairs had once been made and sections of decorative masonry beginning to crumble. Tall windows reflected the colourless sky, though several had been replaced with plywood or were obscured by heavy curtains. The front steps were stained dark with age, their edges softened by weather, while the grand entrance retained an almost imposing sense of formality despite the neglect.

He reached the doors and pushed one open, the weight of it requiring both hands. Beyond lay a vast entrance hall, dimly illuminated by the weak daylight filtering through the windows. Dust hung in the still air, disturbed as he stepped inside. The polished floor had lost its former lustre, and a fine layer of grime covered the carved banister of the sweeping staircase. Old furniture had been pushed against the walls beneath protective sheets, while abandoned boxes and fragments of plaster suggested that whoever had last occupied the building had left in a hurry rather than simply allowing it to fall into disrepair.

Blake stood quietly in the entrance, listening. There was no hum of machinery, no voices, no indication that anyone was living here. Yet the mansion didn't feel entirely dead. There was an atmosphere to it that was difficult to explain, as though the years of people passing through these rooms had left something behind. He tightened his grip on the folder beneath his jacket and looked towards the corridors disappearing beyond the hall. Somewhere in this enormous house there might still be answers about his mutation—about why his emotions seemed capable of affecting the atmosphere around him, and how he could learn to stop that power from controlling him. For the first time since arriving, Blake allowed himself to wonder whether he had actually come to the right place.

Blake moved deeper into the mansion, exploring corridors and rooms that revealed fragments of what the Xavier Institute had once been. He found abandoned classrooms, a library still filled with dust-covered books and a dining room where tables remained arranged as though their occupants had simply walked away. Eventually, in one of the older sections of the building, he noticed a section of wall whose proportions didn't quite fit. Beneath the grime was a narrow seam, and when he pressed against it, a concealed panel slid aside to reveal a small, modern elevator hidden behind the mansion's old architecture. Blake stepped inside and found a single illuminated control. When he pressed it, the doors closed and the elevator began its descent.

Blake already had his phone in his hand, the flashlight casting a narrow white beam ahead of him as he stepped into the elevator. It travelled far deeper than the mansion's foundations should have allowed before finally stopping. When the doors opened, he raised the phone slightly, sweeping the light into the darkness. He found himself looking into what appeared to have once been the X-Men's underground operations level. The layout was unmistakably functional rather than residential: a broad central corridor with industrial flooring, exposed sections of ductwork and recessed lighting running along the ceiling, with several heavy doors opening into rooms along either side. Everything had been left to deteriorate. Dust coated the floor, panels hung loose from the walls and abandoned equipment sat beneath faded covers. At the far end, however, the corridor opened into a vast hangar bay, its enormous doors standing partially open and revealing enough space to suggest that vehicles or aircraft had once been housed there. At the opposite end stood a large sealed door, considerably heavier than the others, with no visible indication of what lay beyond it.

Blake stepped slowly into the corridor, his footsteps echoing through the abandoned facility. He passed several open doorways, each leading into darkened rooms containing fragments of equipment, consoles and storage cabinets, but nothing that immediately explained why the underground complex had been left behind. His attention kept returning to the hangar at one end and the sealed door at the other. Whatever this place had been, it had clearly been far more than a basement. It had been a working facility built beneath the mansion, hidden from the world and seemingly abandoned along with the X-Men themselves. Blake tightened his grip on his phone and started down the corridor, wondering how much of the facility—and its secrets—might still be operational.

Before leaving the underground level, Blake took the time to explore what remained of it. He followed the corridor towards the hangar first, pushing through the partially open doors into a vast, shadowed space. The beam of his phone passed over abandoned equipment, empty vehicle platforms and overhead gantries, all coated in a thick layer of dust. Whatever vehicles had once occupied the hangar were long gone, leaving only the infrastructure behind. Further along, he found what appeared to have been a medical bay. The room contained several examination beds, cabinets and unfamiliar medical equipment, much of it dark and lifeless. He paused there for a while, wondering how many frightened young mutants had once been brought into this room and reassured that they were safe. Eventually, with nothing else revealing itself, Blake retraced his steps towards the elevator and began the journey back to the mansion above.

When the doors opened again, he stepped back into the mansion's darkened interior. The contrast was striking. After the cold, industrial corridors beneath the estate, the old grandeur of Xavier's home felt almost strangely peaceful. Blake followed the hallway without any particular destination, his footsteps muffled by dust and worn carpeting. He passed several closed doors before one stood slightly ajar. Beyond it, he could make out rows of desks.

He pushed the door open.

A classroom.

Blake stepped inside, lowering his phone slightly as he allowed the light to travel across the room. Desks remained arranged in neat rows, some still carrying the faint remnants of whatever lessons had once taken place there. A blackboard covered one wall, its surface dulled by years of dust, while shelves held abandoned books and teaching materials. There was something unexpectedly ordinary about it. This had once been a place where young people had sat, learned, argued, laughed and probably complained about their lessons.

He moved further into the room, his gaze settling on the evidence of lives that had simply stopped. Then he noticed something at the back of the classroom—a narrow bank of lockers, several of them still closed. One had a faded nameplate attached to it, barely visible beneath the dust.

Blake stepped closer.

He wasn't expecting to find anything.

But something about the room made him pause. For the first time since entering the mansion, he wasn't looking at the remains of the X-Men.

He was looking at the remains of the people they had tried to protect.

Blake reached towards the lockers, his fingers brushing across the dusty metal until they caught on something tucked into the bottom of the compartment. He crouched and carefully pulled it free.

It was a small, weathered journal. The dark leather cover had faded with age, its corners rounded from years of handling and the spine beginning to separate in places. Dust clung to its surface, but beneath it Blake could just make out a name written across the front in faded handwriting.

Ororo Munroe.

He stopped.

The name was familiar. Blake had encountered it before in old news reports and articles about the X-Men. Ororo Munroe. Storm. One of the most powerful mutants ever associated with the team.

And, as Blake recalled, her mutation involved the weather.

He stared down at the journal for several seconds.

It felt wrong to open it. This wasn't a report or some abandoned textbook. It was someone's personal thoughts, written long before the world had become what it was now. Whoever Ororo had been when she'd written these pages had trusted this book with things she probably hadn't trusted anyone else with.

Blake almost put it back.

Instead, he opened the cover.

The first several pages were ordinary enough. Notes about lessons, names, fragments of conversations and observations about life at the school. The handwriting changed subtly as the entries progressed, becoming more confident with time. Blake found himself slowly drawn into the life of a young woman he had never met.

Then he reached an entry concerning her mutation.

He stopped reading.

The entry described an early training session in which Ororo had struggled to control the intensity of the weather around her. The more she tried to force the wind and clouds into submission, the more violently they had responded.

Blake frowned.

He read on.

I believed control meant making the weather obey me. If I wanted the wind to stop, I simply had to make it stop. If I wanted the clouds to disperse, I had to force them away.

He paused before continuing.

But the harder I fought it, the worse it became.

Something about that sentence unsettled him. Blake glanced towards the window. Beyond the dusty glass, the sky remained a dull grey, the clouds moving slowly above the trees. There was no storm. Nothing unusual and yet he could feel the atmosphere.

He had become accustomed to that sensation without ever really acknowledging it. The faint pressure behind his eyes. The subtle awareness of moisture hanging in the air. The almost imperceptible changes in temperature and pressure that most people would never notice.

He looked back down.

Professor Xavier asked me what I was feeling.

Blake's eyes followed the next few lines.

I told him I was angry.

He stopped, his thumb resting against the edge of the page.

Anger.

The word carried an uncomfortable weight.

His thoughts drifted back to the street outside the coffee shop. To Lily beneath the rubble. To the Purifiers appearing through the smoke. To the sound of gunfire, to the moment something inside him had broken.

He forced himself back to the journal.

He asked me why I was angry. I told him it was because I could not control my powers. He suggested perhaps that was the reason I could not control them.

Blake's brow furrowed and read the passage again. Perhaps the reason she couldn't control them was because she was angry. It seemed almost too simple, yet the more he considered it, the less ridiculous it sounded.

He turned the page.

Ororo described another training exercise. This time, Xavier had not asked her to manipulate the weather at all. Instead, he had asked her to sit quietly and concentrate on what she was feeling.

Fear. Anger. Grief.

She had described each one in turn—the tightness in her chest, the racing thoughts, the heat beneath her skin. Then came something that made Blake slow.

When I stopped fighting the feelings, the pressure changed.

He read the sentence twice. The pressure.

Blake looked up, his eyes instinctively travelled towards the ceiling, as though he could somehow see through the mansion and into the sky beyond it. He could feel the same thing now. A subtle shift, barely noticeable but it was there.

He looked back at the page.

The wind did not disappear. It became quieter.

He turned another page.

Professor Xavier told me that I had spent so much time believing my emotions were the enemy that I had never considered they might be part of the language my powers understood.

Blake stared at the words. For twelve years, he'd done exactly the opposite. He had treated every unusual sensation as something to suppress. Every surge of emotion had been followed by the same instinctive response: hide it, bury it, control it.

Don't let anyone see. Don't let anyone know. Don't let the weather respond.

His gaze dropped towards his hands as he remembered being sixteen. A frightened boy sitting alone in his bedroom in England, watching clouds gather outside the window after an argument with his parents. He remembered the first time the wind had shifted when he was afraid. The first time the air around him had seemed to change when he was angry. He had convinced himself each time that it was coincidence, that there was something wrong with him and that if he simply kept himself under control, it would go away.

He turned the page, the next entry was several weeks later.

I am beginning to understand the difference between controlling the weather and controlling myself.

Blake's breathing slowed.

That sentence stayed with him.

He read further.

When I am afraid, the wind responds to that fear. When I am angry, the atmosphere becomes unstable. When I am calm, I can feel the difference before I even move the air.

Blake swallowed.

The memories came faster now.

The grey sky. The rain. The pressure building around him. The sensation he'd felt moments before the first lightning strike. He had thought the storm had been responding to his desperation, but perhaps it had been responding to something much more complicated.

He turned another page.

I cannot control every emotion. I cannot simply decide never to be afraid, never to be angry, never to grieve. That is not control. That is denial.

Blake's eyes remained fixed on the words.

I must learn to recognise those feelings, accept them, and understand how they affect the weather before I can expect the weather to respond to me.

He slowly lowered the journal, the room seemed impossibly quiet. For twelve years, Blake had believed his mutation was something he had to suppress. Something dangerous that would inevitably hurt somebody if he allowed it to surface. But what if that had never been the answer?

His gaze drifted towards the window as Lily's face came to him. The sound of her voice.

"Daddy."

His throat tightened.

He remembered the storm.

Not the lightning. Not the hail. Not the destruction.

The moment before it.

The moment when he had realised Lily was in danger and every emotion inside him had surged at once.

Fear. Rage. Desperation. Love.

He had thought he had lost control but perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, his powers had simply been responding to everything he had spent twelve years refusing to acknowledge.

Blake looked down at Ororo's journal again, his thumb slowly traced the worn edge of the page.

"Maybe..." he whispered, almost afraid of the thought.

He looked towards the window once more. The clouds above the mansion shifted and Blake felt the change in the air. This time, he didn't push it away he simply stood there and felt it and for the first time, the sensation didn't feel like a warning.

It felt like an answer.

 

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