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[center][h1]Xavier's Mansion, 1996[/h1][/center]

The figure was forced to watch their step as they walked down the long stretching hallway, the hardwood floor plastered with overturned tables and lamps, shattered vases, and fallen books amidst other signs of mass chaos. The walls, originally made of a fine wood and paint mix were now covered in dents, scratches and what even looked like bullet holes; age old portraits and paintings, their frames splintered and shattered, dangled off the wall, threatening to fall at any moment. Empty and lifeless candle holders hung from the ceiling, lazily teetering on occasion, like poltergeists. 

The figure was particularly alarmed by the sudden resounding crack of thunder from outside, the hallway illuminated for a brief moment by the cascading blue flash of lightning that darted across the dark night sky like long, thin tendrils. 

Disturbed but resolute, the figure continued on, holding a flashlight out in front of them as the night provided little in the way of luminosity aside from the dull glow of the moon that beamed through the windowpanes. 

Silence accompanied the figure, abated only by the shaky, but determined rag of their breathing, the sound of their footsteps against the creaking and groaning of the old wood floor, and the occasional rustling in the darker depths of the hallway the figure was [i]sure[/i] came from mice. 

Approaching the far end of the hallway, the figure came across a single door, somehow immaculately preserved from the destruction that befell the rest of the mansion. 

On the door was a bronze placard that read: [i]Prof. Xavier, Headmaster[/i]. The figure, unable to help but grin at the discovery, twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed it open, a long, drawn-out creak accompanying the motion, causing the figure to tense up until the door had opened up wide enough to step through. 

Inside was an office, practically destroyed like all the others. Perhaps at one point it could have been considered beautiful, with the walls, floor, and ceiling an expensive rosewood, detailed with decorative carvings. Fine leather chairs were overturned halfway across the room, covered in long gashes. A lamp, its cover riddled with holes lay shattered on the now-stained and blackened floor. Yet, the beauteous stone fireplace on one side of the room still crackled and popped with a freshly-renewed flame, casting the room in a refulgent, warm glow that somewhat negated its disorganized state. 

At the far back, in front of a series of tall, cracked windows was a desk, perhaps the only furnishing in the room left in a useable condition; and even then it was in a state worse for wear. 

Sitting in a leather-seated oak chair behind the desk was an [url=http://welivefilm.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/patrick-stewart-as-xavier-pic-2-1160x653.jpg]older man[/url], bald-headed and dressed in a fine three-piece suit. Holding a certain dignified air about him, the man showed the typical signs of aging, but maintained a certain vitality and youthfulness to him, a spark of life and energy. 

The older man's chair was turned round, facing towards the windows behind the desk. For whatever reason, the man appeared to be preoccupied with something, though nothing appeared out of the ordinary from outside aside from the bright glow of the moon...

As if just now noticing someone else was in the room, the older man turned his chair around slowly until he was facing the doorway, a small smile, sad though welcoming crossed over his slightly-wrinkled features.

"Why, hello. It's not often I get visitors." The older man spoke up, breaking the heavy silence that had settled on the room. Though his words were, perhaps intended to convey a sense of surprise, his tone and diction implied he had known this meeting was to occur for some time. 

"Professor Xavier..." The figure said in reply, a certain air of veneration and awe in their tone. 

"Please, call me Charles. I doubt I've much reason to be called a professor anymore." Xavier replied in a composed manner, but a small glint in his eyes spoke more than his words did. Sadness, pain...regret. 

The figure carefully approached the desk, being sure to avoid tripping on any of the fallen pieces of furniture, the sound of shattered glass crunching beneath their feet. 

"Then you know why I've come here...?" The figure replied, unsure whether to state their response as an inquiry or as a declaration. 

"I've known for quite some time. I suppose you'd like to start from the beginning, yes? Please, try and make yourself comfortable...as best as you can, for that matter. Now: it all started many years ago......."