American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

“It’s much bigger than we expected,” Lynn said in a low voice. “This isn’t the place to talk. How many men did you bring?”

“Twelve men, three vehicles, fully armed,” Michael said. “Headquarters said this was a priority mission and gave us the maximum support.”

Lynn nodded, but his brow furrowed. He looked out the window at the gleaming federal vehicles and uniformed agents, and a sense of unease rose within him.

“Michael,” he said, “I need to speak with you alone.”

They entered an empty interrogation room and closed the door. Lynn spoke only after confirming that no one could hear their conversation:
"This enemy is different. They have inside intelligence sources."

"What's the meaning?"

“Our operations in Mississippi were supposed to be completely secret,” Lynn explained, “but the enemy knew we were there, knew our flight path, and even tracked us down very quickly after our crash. What does that mean?”

Michael's expression turned serious. "Someone is leaking information."

“This isn’t just a regular leak,” Lynn said. “Based on the information we’ve obtained, this organization has high-level contacts within the government. It could be the FBI, it could be other agencies, we don’t know. But one thing is certain—we can’t take the conventional route.”

"you mean?"

“I need you as bait,” Lynn said bluntly. “You’ll take most of the men, drive federal vehicles, and head to New York along the interstate. Make a big show of it, let everyone know you’re there.”

Michael's eyes narrowed. "And you?"

“I’ll take the most important target—Little Rascal—along a different route,” Lynn said. “Civilian vehicles, ordinary clothes, and we’ll head to our destination discreetly. If the enemy’s intelligence sources are inside the FBI, they’ll track you, not us.”

Michael paused for a moment, considering the feasibility of the plan.

“This is risky,” he said. “If you run into trouble and there’s no support—”

“If we go together, we’ll all run into trouble,” Lynn interrupted him. “Going separately will at least ensure one side arrives safely. Besides, I’m not alone.”

“You mean those mutants?” Michael’s tone was somewhat complicated.

“Yes,” Lynn said, “some of them are better fighters than an FBI tactical squad. Trust me, Michael, this is the best option.”

Michael sighed. “You’ve never liked following the rules, Lynn. But this time…maybe you’re right.”

"So it's settled then?"

“It’s settled,” Michael nodded. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Lynn said, “the sooner the better. The enemy may already be on their way.”

The next hour was dedicated to intensive preparations.

Lynn explained his plan to the others. Logan and Cyclops would accompany the FBI convoy as additional fighting force—their abilities could provide crucial support should an ambush occur. Storm wasn't fully recovered, but she insisted on staying with Cyclops.

“This means you and Little Rascal will be acting alone,” Logan said, frowning. “I don’t like this arrangement.”

“I know,” Lynn said, “but Little Rascal is the most important target. If the enemy discovers she’s not in the FBI convoy, they might abandon the pursuit and look for her instead. We need to hide her.”

“What about Victor and Jason?” Sarah asked.

“They’re following the FBI convoy,” Lynn said. “With Logan and One-Eyed guarding them, plus twelve armed agents, they should be safe enough.”

“Should,” Logan repeated the word, his tone sarcastic, “you use ‘should’ far too often.”

“That’s our situation right now,” Lynn said. “Nothing is certain. We can only minimize the risks as much as possible.”

The little rascal listened to the discussion in silence. When Lynn looked at her, she nodded.

“I will go with you,” she said, “if it’s the best option.”

“Thank you,” Lynn said, then turned to Michael, “Which way do you need to go?”

Michael unfolded a map. "The standard route is east along I-40, through Knoxville and Asheville, then turning north onto I-81 all the way to New York. It's about a twelve-hour drive."

“It’s too obvious,” Lynn said. “If you take this route, you’ll be sitting ducks.”

“I know,” Michael said, “but our goal is to draw attention, isn’t it? I’ll keep the convoy moving at high speed to reduce the chances of an ambush.”

“Be careful,” Lynn said. “They have mutants, military-grade weapons, and fighter jets—though I’m not sure if they have any more.”

“We’ll be careful,” Michael said. “What about you? Which way are you going?”

Lynn pointed to another route on the map. “We’ll take a back road, through Great Smoky Mountains National Park, then north along the Blue Ridge Highway. It’s longer, might take fifteen hours, but it’s less populated and harder to track.”

“Blue Ridge Highway?” Michael frowned. “That road has a lot of curves; it’s dangerous to drive on at night.”

“But it’s also more concealed,” Lynn said. “And if your convoy attracts enough attention, no one will think to search that road.”

Michael nodded, though he still had doubts, but he chose to trust Lynn's judgment.

At 4:30 p.m., both teams were ready.

The FBI convoy lined up in front of the police station, engines roaring, ready to depart at any moment. Victor was transferred to the middle car, his hands and feet cuffed, his restraints still on. Jason, still unconscious, was placed in the back seat of the last car, guarded by two agents.

Logan, Cyclops, and Storm each boarded one of the three vehicles, one mutant per vehicle, to ensure the fighting force was dispersed. Sarah also chose to follow the convoy—as an FBI agent, it made sense for her to stay with her colleagues.

Lynn watched all this from the side, holding a new pistol and several magazines borrowed from Michael.

"Ready?" Michael asked as he walked over.

“Ready,” Lynn said. “Your mission is to reach New York safely. No heroism. If ambushed, the primary objective is to protect the prisoners and your men.”

“I know,” Michael said, then extended his hand. “Take care, Lynn. See you in New York.” Lynn took his hand. “See you in New York.”

The FBI convoy started moving, and three black SUVs slowly drove out of the police station parking lot, heading towards the interstate highway. Lynn watched them disappear around the corner, silently praying that everything would go smoothly.

"Where is our car?" Little Rascal's voice came from behind.

Lynn turned around and saw her standing there, dressed in civilian clothes borrowed from the police station—a gray hoodie and jeans, her hair tucked into the hat, looking like an ordinary young girl.

“Come with me,” he said.

They went around to the back of the police station, where an unremarkable old Honda Accord was parked. It was something Officer Lynn Thompson had helped get—picked from the police station's confiscated vehicles, without any official markings, looking just like any ordinary car on the street.

"This is our car?" Little Rascal frowned. "It looks like it could fall apart at any moment."

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Lynn said, opening the car door and checking the interior. “The engine was just serviced, the gas tank is full, and—” He picked up a backpack from the back seat, “food, water, a first-aid kit, and a spare gun. Enough to last us until we reach our destination.”

The little rascal climbed into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. "Let's go then."

Lynn started the car, the engine emitting a slightly hoarse roar—it certainly sounded like an old car—and then slowly drove out of the parking lot and into Knoxville's city traffic.

Instead of taking the interstate highway, they headed southwest of the city toward Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

The evening sunlight streamed through the car windows, bathing the world in a golden hue. Suburban houses and shops lined the roadside, gradually giving way to rolling hills and dense forests. The scent of pine trees and wildflowers filled the air, drifting in through the half-open car window.

"Are you sure this is the right road?" Little Rascal asked, looking out the window at the increasingly desolate scenery.

“I’m sure,” Lynn said. “The Blue Ridge Highway is one of the most scenic highways in America, stretching over 400 miles through the Appalachian Mountains. Lots of tourists, but very little surveillance. The perfect hiding route.”

"It sounds like you've done your homework."

“One of the advantages of being an FBI agent,” Lynn said, “is that you learn a lot of escape routes.”

The little rascal chuckled softly, but the smile quickly vanished. She leaned back in her seat, watching the scenery rushing past the window, her expression turning melancholy.

"What are you thinking about?" Lynn asked.

“A lot of things,” Rogue said, “Victor’s memories, Jason’s powers, and that organization. They call themselves the Brotherhood, but not Magneto’s. Victor has fragmented memories of their history, but it’s terrifying.”

Would you be willing to tell me?

The little rascal hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“They’ve existed for a very long time,” she said, “longer than the X-Men. Decades, maybe even longer. Their founder, Victor, was only known by a codename: ‘Oracle.’ He was said to be one of the first mutants, possessing some kind of precognitive ability.”

"Predicting the future?"

“It’s not complete foresight,” Little Rascal said, “more like seeing all the possibilities and then choosing the most advantageous path. That’s why their organization has been able to exist for so long and is rarely discovered. Whenever someone gets close to the truth, the prophet sees it in advance and then takes action to stop them.”

Lynn's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. An enemy who could foresee the future—that explained why they could always anticipate their own actions.

"Is the prophet still alive?"

“Victor didn’t know,” Rogue said. “He was just a field agent and had never seen the real upper echelons. But he knew that even though the Oracle was dead, the organization had other leaders. They had a committee of seven people, each with powerful mutant abilities.”

Seven?

“Yes,” the little rascal’s voice deepened, “Victor only knows the code names of a few of them. ‘Priest,’ with some kind of mind control ability, responsible for recruitment and brainwashing. ‘Blacksmith,’ who can manipulate metal, responsible for weapons and technology. And ‘Ghost,’ who can become invisible and walk through walls, responsible for intelligence and assassination.”

Lynn felt a chill run down his spine. This wasn't just a criminal organization; it was a secret society comprised of top mutants, with a complete organizational structure and a clear division of labor.

"What is their goal?" he asked.

“Mutant supremacy,” Rogue said, “but not in Magneto’s open confrontation with humanity. They’re more covert. They believe mutants should control the world in secret, not expose themselves. They infiltrate governments, corporations, and the military, slowly building influence, waiting for the right moment.”

“What time?”

“Victor doesn’t know the specifics of the plan, but he’s heard bits and pieces,” Rogue said. “They’re waiting for some kind of 'awakening.' It’s said that when the mutant population reaches a certain level, and a pivotal event occurs, they will launch an operation that will completely change the world order.”

Lynn fell silent. It sounded like some crazy conspiracy theory, but considering everything they had already encountered—fighter jets, military weapons, well-trained soldiers—the organization's strength was clearly not to be underestimated.

"Does Professor X know about this?" he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Rogue said. “Victor has some memories of Xavier’s School of the Rising Sun, but very little. The Brotherhood seems to have been avoiding direct confrontation with the X-Men, treating them as objects to be observed but not eliminated for the time being.”

"Why?"

“Because Professor X is too powerful,” Rogue said. “Victor has heard that Professor X is one of the most powerful telepaths in the world. If the Brotherhood and the X-Men went to war, the outcome would be unpredictable. So they chose to keep their distance and operate in the shadows.”

The car continued on, entering the border of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The road became more winding, flanked by towering trees and steep slopes. The setting sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled light and shadow on the road.

"Are you scared?" Lynn suddenly asked.

"What?"

“All of this,” he said, “the organization, the hunt, and those memories in your head. Are you scared?”

The little rascal was silent for a moment, then said, "I'm scared. But not scared that they'll kill me. I'm scared that I'll become a part of them."

"You won't."

"How do you know?" The little rascal's voice trembled slightly. "I have Victor's memories and his abilities in my mind. Sometimes I can even sense his way of thinking—that ruthless way of treating people as tools, that thirst for power. What if one day those things take over?" (End of Chapter)