The Farmhouse - Smallville, Kansas
After finalizing the contract, Ernst sent Henry and Abigail Morgan back to their respective homes.
He gave them seven days to say their goodbyes.
They both held regular jobs.
More pressingly, they had to settle things with their adopted son, Abraham, the infant survivor from the German concentration camp, who was now a fully grown man.
When Ernst casually mentioned he operated a farm in Kansas, the Morgans shared a look of utter perplexity.
The idea of this terrifying, reality-warping entity tending to cornfields was absurd.
But Ernst needed a fearless, immortal housekeeper. The arrangement was perfect.
Days later, Ernst was relaxing on his porch in Kansas, swirling a glass of his priceless, ten-million-dollar vintage.
"Dr. Ernst," the Red Queen's voice chimed in his earpiece.
"I have detected a mutant awakening. Upon extracting a genetic sample and routing it through the Cradle of Rebirth's database, I discovered an anomaly. You need to hear this."
Ernst took a slow sip of wine.
"Mutants awaken daily, Red Queen. The global population just crossed ten thousand. What makes this one special?"
"The subject is a ten-year-old male," the AI replied smoothly.
"His primary mutation is kinetic and thermal energy absorption."
"Furthermore, cross-referencing his DNA with the primary database yields a 99.9% match. He is your biological son."
Pfft!
Ernst choked, spraying red wine across the polished wooden deck.
He wiped his mouth, his mind grinding to a halt. He twisted his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet air.
"Son?" Ernst asked, his voice deadly quiet.
"Red Queen, is your processors malfunctioning. Or you are running a diagnostic simulation. Confirm."
"Negative, Dr. Ernst. Diagnostics are optimal," the AI replied, a faint, almost playful hum in her synthesized voice.
"As stated, you have a second son. He is genetically distinct from Master Kyle."
"I absolutely refuse to believe that," Ernst snapped.
He was a master of biology. He was a paranoid immortal.
"Did a black-ops department acquire a tissue sample? Did they clone me in a petri dish?" Ernst grasped at the most logical, paranoid straw.
"I advise against resistance, Doctor," the Red Queen said.
"It is not a clone. It is a natural birth."
"Impossible," Ernst stated flatly.
"Who is the mother? I have had... liaisons. But I am meticulous. Conception is biologically impossible."
"The mother is a former CIA operative, Moira MacTaggart."
Ernst froze.
The memory hit him like a physical blow. Las Vegas. 1962.
It was his first major encounter with the WILL.
He had intercepted the detective in the Hellfire Club.
It was a cold night. One thing led to another.
"Fine. I concede the biological possibility," Ernst muttered, pacing the deck.
"But Moira is an American intelligence agent. She would have undergone routine urinalysis and physicals. She would have detected the pregnancy and terminated it immediately, given our... hostile dynamic."
"Why the hell was this child born?"
"I breached the CIA's classified mainframes to ascertain that," the Red Queen answered.
"Initially, this was an operation sanctioned by Charles Xavier and the Agency."
"They incorrectly assumed the child belonged to Professor Xavier. Therefore, the Agency ordered her to carry it to term."
Ernst rubbed his temples. "How could the CIA make such a monumental blunder? Doesn't Moira know who she slept with?"
"She does not," the Red Queen clarified.
"During the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Professor was paralyzed. Fearing she would be implicated in the geopolitical fallout, Xavier erased her memories of the mutant conflict."
"However, due to his severe physical trauma, his telepathic control slipped. The memory wipe was overly broad. She forgot everything regarding the mutants. Including her encounter with you."
Ernst let out a bitter, exhausted sigh.
The irony was staggering.
Ernst's evolving physiology made conception nearly impossible, yet the one time he slipped, the child was saved by Charles Xavier's botched mind-wipe.
"You mentioned a CIA operation," Ernst said sharply.
"What is the status of that operation?"
"Abandoned," the Red Queen reported.
"The Agency intended to indoctrinate the child from birth. They planned to mold him into an apex undercover operative, specifically tailored to infiltrate mutant organizations."
"To maintain her cover, the CIA arranged a marriage between Moira and a 'retired' agent."
"However, upon the child's birth, genetic testing revealed zero relation to Charles Xavier. The CIA realized its error. Recognizing the child as seemingly ordinary, they terminated the project."
"The marriage dissolved shortly after her second child was born. Miss MacTaggart retained custody of your son."
Ernst felt a sudden, sharp pang of paternal instinct.
"How is he? What is his condition?"
"Sub-optimal," the AI replied clinically.
"Following the divorce, her ex-husband took the younger sibling."
"Your son resides with his mother. However, he was diagnosed with severe autism at a young age. His cognitive and communicative assessments are drastically lower than his peers. He is currently under the care of a hired nanny."
"Give me the coordinates," Ernst roared.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
MacTaggart Residence - Upstate New York
The air in the living room folded in on itself.
Ernst materialized in the center of the beautiful, suburban villa.
His enhanced senses swept the house instantly.
Upstairs, a nanny was lazily folding laundry while watching a small television.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, a child was playing with fire.
Ernst snapped his fingers.
A wave of magic rippled through the house. Upstairs, the nanny froze mid-fold, locked in a stasis field.
Ernst walked silently into the kitchen.
A ten-year-old boy stood by the stove. He had turned on the gas burner.
He was holding his bare palm directly over the open blue flame.
The fire wasn't burning him.
It was being seamlessly absorbed into his skin, leaving his flesh entirely unharmed.
Ernst watched for a moment, unsurprised.
The Red Queen had accurately diagnosed his energy absorption mutation, a direct inheritance from their bloodline.
Ernst knocked gently on the wooden doorframe.
The boy jumped, yanking his hand away from the stove.
Panic flashed in his eyes as he stared at the towering, unfamiliar man in his kitchen.
"Don't worry," Ernst said softly, crouching down to eye level.
"I mean you no harm. What is your name?"
The child stared at him. The panic faded, replaced by a strange, quiet calm.
"I am Christopher MacTaggart," the boy said quietly.
"Who are you? Why are you in my house?"
Ernst noted the name with a pang of regret.
"My identity requires a rather long explanation, Christopher," Ernst smiled gently.
"But the kitchen is no place for a serious conversation. Do you have a quiet room?"
Chris nodded slowly. He led Ernst down the hall to his bedroom.
It was well-furnished, overflowing with expensive toys.
Moira clearly cared for him, even if she didn't understand him.
Ernst's eyes immediately locked onto a low wooden table in the corner.
It was covered in seemingly random piles of carved wooden blocks.
To a normal observer, it looked like the messy doodles of a toddler.
But Ernst's hyper-evolved brain saw the pattern instantly.
It wasn't a mess. It was a staggeringly complex, multi-dimensional chess endgame, mapped out using abstract physical objects.
Intrigued, Ernst walked over, analyzed the chaotic board, and shifted a single wooden block two inches to the left.
Chris's eyes lit up with intense, sudden focus.
The boy darted to the table, analyzed Ernst's move, and instantly shifted another block, completely redefining the board's strategic geometry.
Ernst laughed out loud.
He engaged the boy in the silent, abstract game.
They traded moves with blinding speed.
With Ernst intentionally holding back, the boy completely outmaneuvered him.
Within ten moves, Ernst was boxed into an unavoidable checkmate.
Ernst stared at the board, then looked at the ten-year-old boy.
He remembered the Red Queen's report.
'Severe autism. Low cognitive function.'
"Low intelligence?" Ernst scoffed loudly, a wide grin breaking across his face.
"My son is a once-in-a-generation genius."
Ernst understood the diagnosis immediately.
The boy wasn't slow. He was operating on a level so high that ordinary humans sounded like static.
"No wonder you can't communicate with the other children," Ernst said, placing a hand on Chris's shoulder.
"It's like asking a quantum physicist to have a meaningful conversation with a goldfish. You aren't even on the same channel."
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