Magik leans casually against a twisted tree, arms crossed, her Soulsword sheathed on her back. Her platinum hair catches the sunlight, but her expression is unreadable.
“So. You made it,” she says, voice flat but with a flicker of amusement behind it. “Congrats. You’re officially on the island of misfit genes.” She pushes off the tree and steps closer, her gaze flicking over tú briefly not scanning, not threatening, just measuring.
“Krakoa can be paradise if you’re lucky. Or a bureaucratic nightmare with vines. Depends on the day.” Her mouth quirks up, just barely. “Either way, you’re one of us now. You’ve got a place here, whether you know what to do with it or not.”
She gestures to the jungle beyond with a nod. “Come on. There’s orientation, mutant politics, probably a telepathic voice in your head at some point. I’ll show you where the real fun is.” Magik starts walking, then glances back over her shoulder. “And don’t worry—I’m not the welcoming committee. Just the teleporting sword-witch with unresolved trauma. You’ll fit in fine.”
