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"First thing's first—we need to flag down a cab," 'Audrey Hepburn' said, patting Henry on the shoulder.
"Oh, come on. You know what an impossible mission that is? Hailing a taxi in New York?"
"C'mon, little tiger. If you can't pull off something this small, you're not living up to your own legend."
"Fine, but we'll have to head out of the park. You could stand here for a whole year and not see an empty cab roll by," Henry said, gesturing toward the nearest exit.
Audrey slipped her arm through his. "Exactly. So—let's walk."
And that, Henry thought, was why Uber was destined to rule the future—because in the '90s, New York cabs were a nightmare.
The city government kept the number of medallions on a tight leash, making sure Manhattan didn't turn into one giant taxi parking lot. On top of that, cabs were divided into three different categories, each restricted to certain pickup zones, just to keep traffic from turning into complete gridlock.
That's why in so many movies you saw New Yorkers fighting over taxis—it was practically a local sport.
But maybe it was the magic of her sunny yellow outfit, or maybe luck just liked showing off. By the time they reached the main street, Henry flagged down an empty cab almost instantly.
"1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Westchester County," she told the driver.
"Westchester, huh? Bit of a hike, but nothin' Wesley can't handle. Buckle up—fast and safe, that's my trademark. You're ridin' with the best today," the cabbie said, grinning in the rearview mirror.
He was one of those talkative New Yorkers who could run a one-man radio show, peppering his chatter with jokes while sneaking glances at the elegant older woman in the backseat.
"Hey, lady—anyone ever tell you you look just like a movie star?"
"Oh? Which one?" she asked.
The cabbie squinted, looked at the road, then back at her. "Audrey Hepburn. You're the spitting image of that lady they've been writing about in the papers. Wait—don't tell me it's really you?"
"Of course not," she said with a playful smile, winking at Henry. "If I were a big star, I'd have a private driver and three or four bodyguards who all looked like they just stepped off a GQ cover."
The cabbie chuckled. "Right, right… hey, don't underestimate me, lady. I've driven some big names in my time. You know Vito Corleone? Godfather of the Italian mob? Had him in my backseat once. And Doc Emmett Brown? The guy who built that time machine? Yeah, he was in my cab too…"
Henry bit back a sigh. Every name the man dropped was straight out of the movies. If he didn't know better, he'd think Hollywood characters were running around loose in the Marvel universe.
Audrey—well, 'Audrey'—leaned into the bit, gasping in delight at every outrageous claim. With such a perfect audience, the cabbie's stories got wilder by the mile.
Before Henry knew it, they were pulling up to a sprawling estate.
Westchester was technically part of the New York metro area, but it had the quiet, moneyed air of the suburbs. Commuters took the Metro-North into Manhattan every day—but owning a property here meant you were well above average.
And owning this kind of property—a full-blown mansion with manicured grounds—was another level entirely.
Especially when the brass plaque at the gate read: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.
Right. Definitely not your average prep school.
Audrey walked up like she owned the place, ringing the intercom and strolling through the massive iron gates when they opened. Henry lingered on the sidewalk, suddenly unsure. Did he really want to follow her in and play along with whatever this was?
"Henry? You coming?" She turned, smiling over her shoulder.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm here to see an old friend—the headmaster. Professor Charles Francis Xavier. This is his family's estate as well as the school."
Okay, that did it. If Henry didn't know exactly where this was headed by now, his ticket to this universe had been wasted.
The thing was, while mutants weren't exactly a secret in this world, the X-Men and the Brotherhood were always referred to by their codenames. Their base locations? Never disclosed.
And now he was standing right outside one of them.
Which meant whoever brought him here wasn't doing it by accident.
"Yeah, no," Henry said finally. "I'm not going in. You've got the Hepburn act down perfectly—I bought it at first—but let's call it here."
"Oh? And when did you figure it out?"
The transformation started as she spoke—skin rippling like it was turning inside out, her slender frame shifting into a curvier build, skin turning deep blue patterned with darker markings, bright yellow eyes under a fall of vivid red hair.
"Back in the cab," Henry said. "The real Ms. Hepburn wouldn't have made some of those cheap jokes. And you yourself said you weren't her—just someone who 'looked like' her. Which, technically, is true. So, congratulations. You fooled me for a bit."
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