Right. If you believe I own X-Men and have the rights to the movie, then I'm not going to burst your bubble. I am not going to attempt to understand the mental disorder you have—no offense, but if you seriously think someone as rich as the person who actually does the owning of X-Men writes for FanFiction… then there's something wrong with you—but you are more than welcome to believe that delusion if you so wish.

For all of you who don't believe that I own X-Men, then I'm not going to continuously remind you with annoying little disclaimers that serve absolutely no purpose other than to point out the obvious. This is my one and only disclaimer for the rest of this story (however long that may be).

Next on the agenda for this author's note is the styling of this story. It's something brand new that I have never done before, so if this entire format sucks… then, you're just going to have to deal with it until I change back to my normal writing style. I personally, am enjoying this rambling dialogue interspersed with random details, so… I'm going to keep writing it.

This will be updated on Fridays only until further notice.

For those of you who have done some pre-reading on this fic, you'll recognize the first part of this chapter (and the first part of the next couple of chapters). For those of you who haven't, too late! It's kind of like Pottermore, where that early registration stuff (and early reading) is only for a limited time only. It is now taken down.

Also, I am using some of the stuff from the beach scene in this chapter and the next couple. You'll understand where I'm going with it soon enough.

Also, review!

PS: I won't usually do page-long author's notes—just in the beginning or if I've been gone a long time.

Now, for your regularly scheduled broadcast.

The Perks of Being a Telepath

Chapter 1: No Negotiations Necessary

"The CIA does not negotiate with terrorists."

Blue eyes stared stonily back into his own, unsettling cold on the otherwise boyish, open face.

"I assure you, I am not a terrorist."

Soft spoken, yet steel rang in his voice. Despite his youthful expression, this man was firm in his beliefs.

"You blew up three different American government properties. If that is not an act of terrorism, then what is?"

A look of disbelief, followed by another unsettling cold look.

"A government that fails to abide the rights of its people."

It was his turn to be disbelieving.

"You are not human beings, therefore the law does not include you."

The boyish man in front of him rolled his eyes as if this was one argument he had heard countless of times before. Perhaps he had, but that didn't make it any less true.

"Or false."

The two simple words made him reach for his gun.

"You read minds."

A heavy sigh, followed by the movement of a chapped, bloodied hand to move his ridiculously long hair out of his face.

"You insult my intelligence."

The air of British snobbery about this man—mutant—was almost laughable. Did he not understand the situation?

"I assure you, I do. Perhaps even better than you."

Annoyance that this mutant thought he was better than everyone else. Better than him.

"When I have evidence that proves to the contrary, I will revaluate my thoughts."

This mutant was infuriating.

"And I will continue to be until you acknowledge that I am neither a terrorist nor lesser in being than you, Agent McCone."

"Then it appears we have come to an impasse, Xavier. Shall I proceed under the assumption that you will not cooperate willingly?"

There was a moment of pause. It was not one of fear, McCone noticed, but one of deliberation. Charles Xavier was not afraid of him.

"Why should I be?"

A challenge spoken softly and in a British accent was still a challenge nonetheless. And McCone had never taken a challenge sitting down.

"A rather cruel thought, given the situation."

Was that laughter?

"Yes. You intend to bully me into being afraid of you, yet there is nothing that you can do to me that would be worse than what I have already experienced."

McCone looked over the rims of his glasses, taking a real look at the man (mutant) who sat in front of him wearing an tattered and stained orange jumpsuit. Long and ragged brown hair hung over a gaunt face that at one time would have been filled with boyish mischief. A thin, malnourished frame leaned casually, yet proudly against the back of a metal chair. Handcuffs chafed against thin, bloodied wrists that rested on the folding table between them. Long legs dangled limply from the chair, where handcuffs sat open and useless against the paralyzed limbs.

The most frightening sight, however, wasn't the obviously underfed body or the paralyzed legs, nor the gaunt face, nor the incomprehensible smugness.

It was the eyes. Startling blue eyes shone out of their sunken sockets, revealing the intelligence that went behind a PhD in genetics from Oxford and the spark of rebellion that McCone saw in most terrorists. But the most unsettling of all was the pity. Charles Xavier, a mutant, captured and beaten, finally at the end of his rather lengthy rope, pitied John McCone, CIA agent, and leader of the mutant capture.

"Yes, it is rather ironic, isn't it?"

Charles was grinning. It wasn't a pleasant sight—blood caked his face and seeped from a cut inside of his mouth.

McCone glared, which only caused Charles to let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Shut up."

The words leapt out of McCone's mouth before he had the chance to stop him. He glared at Charles, who tapped a finger knowingly to his head.

"You know as well as I do that I can't use that power at the moment. You've made sure of that."

McCone smirked.

"It is one of my more useful inventions. You might be powerful enough to still be able to read my mind, but there is no way you can control me anymore."

The telepath smiled once more, more of a feral grin than an actual expression of pleasure.

"Have you ever played chess, Mr. McCone?"

The CIA agent furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Yes."

The door behind the telepath seemed to have swung open on its own accord.

"I do believe you find yourself in a tricky position, John—may I call you John?"

McCone growled in response.

"I daresay that your manners leave something to be desired."

A shadow appeared on the white cinderblocks outside of the office. It was a tall, dark shadow that was menacing in its appearance.

"You have three options, John."

The shadow grew closer. McCone's hand went to his gun.

"One, you can shoot me now and then try to take down whatever threat lays outside of that door. I assure you, if you do shoot me, then the aftermath won't be very pleasant for you."

The shadow gave way to a booted foot and a fatigue-clad leg. The metal folding table seemed to vibrate with anticipation. McCone belatedly realized that it was actually vibrating.

"Two, you can simply let me go."

McCone took his eyes off the door to stare incredulously at the man in front of him.

"Or three, you can start a war you have no hope of winning."

The foot and leg entered the room seconds before their owner—a very tall, very thin, very imposing looking man who had a metal disk orbiting his head.

McCone stared in shock at the man with the disk to Charles and back again.

The image of a badly beaten Charles suddenly gave way to a handsome, boyish looking man with well-groomed hair, who was in perfect health.

"You said you played chess, John," he said as he rose haltingly from his chair. "You are in what I believe is called checkmate."

McCone's mouth fell open.

"Charles, dear, I do believe Raven is getting anxious," the metal wielder said from behind the telepath. "Can you find it in your damnable courtesy to hurry the hell up?"

"Now, Erik, darling, I wouldn't want to rush the director of the CIA in such an important decision," Charles replied. He looked to McCone. "What is your choice?"

McCone dropped the gun.

The last thing he was aware of was a very compelling voice telling him to go to sleep, and then he knew no more.

The smell of smoke and oil combined with the wreckage of a giant submarine and a state of the art stealth plane ruined the otherwise calm, tropical Cuban beach. In the distance, two naval ships sat on either side of an imaginary line in the water. One ship bore an American flag, the other a Russian. In between them lay the smoking wreckage of a second Russian naval ship.

The silence was broken by a high pitch scream filled the air, vibrating the very molecules in the air and the water, seconds before a misshapen flying man crashed into the sandy beach. Upon closer inspection, it was actually a boy in his late teen, dressed in a yellow and blue jumpsuit with wings, hence the misshapen appearance. One wing had a huge hole in the webbed fabric.

At his feet lay a muscular, sandy blond teen who wasn't much older. He had a perfect circular hole in the front of his blue and yellow jumpsuit.

What sounded like a giant dragonfly, but was in actuality a flying girl dressed in a skimpy black dress reverberated above them. The boy without the wings stood up with a grunt and sent a flash of red light toward the girl, who crumpled to the ground with a whimper.

There was a loud crack, and suddenly, a blood red man with a forked tail and dressed in all black appeared on the beach, battling a large, furry and blue—lion dressed in a blue and gold jumpsuit.

"Azazel!"

A sharp man in a metal helmet that looked absolutely ridiculous barked the single word from the shadows of the plane wreckage.

The red man stopped, his eyes widening as he looked at the man in front of him. He disappeared for a moment with a crack and reappeared in mid-air above the blue lion, who calmly knocked the red man out with a punch of his fist.

The sharp man melted into a blue girl with bright red hair who threw the blue lion a grin.

Seconds later, an agonizing cry split the air, followed by an overwhelming sensation of pain and betrayal that swept over all of the members on the beach. The emotions and the feelings were staggering, sending the four conscious people on the beach to their knees, clutching at their heads.

Charles sighed heavily as he watched Director John A. McCone drop to the desk with a snore. He absently rubbed his temples to attempt to alleviate the steady throb that had sprung into existence the day before.

"Charles?"

He glanced at Erik, who was staring at him with a mixture of concern and anxiety, a look Charles was becoming all too familiar with as of late.

"It's fine."

Charles should have known better than to hide anything from Erik—the man knew him too well. They had been the best of friends for the better part of three years now, ever since Charles had rescued Erik from the submarine that fateful night where so much changed for them all.

"Lying doesn't become you."

"And being a mother hen doesn't suit you, either. I am fine, Erik."

Intense blue-gray eyes bore steadily into stubborn blue, neither willing to back down. Charles knew that his headache was something he had to deal with until they returned to their hideout, while Erik's concern was more than justified. Last time Charles had overdone it, he had slipped into a coma for three weeks.

Surprisingly, Erik was the one who looked away first. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, how important Charles was on a mission such as this, where telepathic illusions were the first line of defense. If Charles couldn't handle it, then it wasn't just the two of them at stake—it was the others, breaking into the building and helping to rescue the captured mutants. And Charles wouldn't risk them. Erik knew that. Especially after the events with Shaw.

"We're running out of time. Did you get anything useful?"

Charles rolled his eyes, immediately regretting the action when it caused a lightning bolt of pain to shoot across his skull. By the grace of whatever god that was looking out for Charles, Erik didn't notice.

"Have I ever given you any cause to doubt me?"

Erik gave the barest hints of a smile as he shook his head.

"No."

Charles did smile, albeit softly.

"You can trust me, Erik," he murmured. "I won't betray you. Not now, not ever."

A high-pitched scream effectively cut off the rest of their heartfelt, though rather out of place conversation.

"That's the signal," Erik said grimly.

Sean's scream was the all clear. They would meet no resistance on their way out.

Charles sighed. This was becoming ridiculously easy.