Charles Xavier closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. Not to fight. But to find the next scared, lonely mutant. The next girl who couldn't touch anyone without killing them. The next boy who saw colors in sounds.
As Erik led his Brotherhood into the ocean, Charles heard one last telepathic whisper, soft as a goodbye. X-men- First Class
"I can feel the sailors," Charles whispered, as they hovered outside the sub's hull in a stolen helicopter. "They're scared. They're just boys. They don't want this war." Charles Xavier closed his eyes and reached out with his mind
X-Men.
They trained on a secluded beach. In the mornings, Charles taught them philosophy and control. "Anger is a jet of steam," he'd say. "You can let it blow the lid off, or you can use it to power a locomotive." In the afternoons, Erik taught them the hard edge. "Survival," he'd say, as he made a satellite dish buckle with a flick of his wrist, "is not a philosophy. It is a reflex." The next girl who couldn't touch anyone without killing them