Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

The Genoshan mess hall seemed even quieter than it was. When the Brotherhood had captured it, there'd been a feast. Human prisoners made to serve a banquet to their former captives, food whipped up and brought back to life by Good Doctor, who could revitalize a rotting cabbage as easily as a wounded arm. The taste had been exquisite. No preservatives, no artificial flavoring, just pure life.

Now—nothing. The island of Krakoa was being evacuated. Only a flag presence of combat members were staying, for the time being, ready to put up a defense if and when the humans attacked. But most were being evacuated back to the Savage Land, save for those who simply wanted to leave. There were more than a few.

The mutants had never expanded their hold to the mainland. It had still fallen, but now the country of Genosha was locked in civil war. Neighboring countries, African warlords, Muslim fundamentalists, mercenaries representing corporate interests—all factions infighting amongst each other in the chaos Cyclops had left.

He ate. There was so much to coordinate, so much to do, that even this late at night, he couldn't quite believe there was nothing else but to wait. Madrox was populating the island, covering the evacuation as Gateway teleported out the civilians. Letting the military believe that the Brotherhood wasn't going anywhere—that they had all the time in the world to formulate a response.

Under normal circumstances, Gateway could only teleport ten people a day; maybe make a return trip. On Banshee, he could transport a hundred at a time. Soon, the island would be emptied. That was the one upside in all this. The Banshee. It had proven very useful. But it was no replacement for Magneto.

His power, his charisma, his vision—the world was still convinced he was the real threat, and no one outside the Brotherhood knew if he'd stayed or gone. They wouldn't attack, with all their metal, not unless they'd taken Erik out first. They had no way of knowing Scott had already done it for them.

Scott went over his thoughts again, shopworn as they were. The Ultimates. They wouldn't like being used for a police action, an act that could be thought of as racial violence. Not when Magneto wasn't on Krakoa. Thor, at least, would be against it. He wouldn't like being used as a weapon of mass destruction. But who else? Who wouldn't fall in line, simply because they were given an order? Erik had made it so easy, dammit. So easy for them to be hated...

The voices carried before they entered the room—a few bodies to restore some of the faded luster. When they opened the door, the light spilled in, illuminating the half-finished mutant fractals Skyhigh had been lasering into the walls. A fresco, turning it from a place of death into a celebration of life. Toad and the Mastermind sisters walked in.

"So how big is your tongue, Mort?" Martinique asked, cheeky as ever.

"Let me put it this way. It's almost as big as my—" Toad saw Scott and stopped short. "Oh, hey ya there, boss-man. Me and the birds were just looking for a late-night snack."

"Yeah," Martinique added, rubbing Toad's chest. She'd been hanging on his arm. "We're ravenous."

Regan rolled her eyes. She was, as always, the mirror image of Martinique, despite all they'd done to differentiate themselves. They always came out looking like the before and after in some commercial, though which was which—and what the commercial was advertising—was never clear.

Regan wore a professional black evening gown, even in their informal setting, while Martinique paired short-shorts with a camisole top that cropped just below her breasts. Mort was handsome enough to attract at least one's attention, in an unconventional sort of way. Maybe his green skin was as appealing to them as Mystique's blue hide was to Scott.

Raven...

Regan went to serve them while Martinique lolled indolently across a table, Toad jumping up on one as well. Scott wondered if Regan had lost a bet. "Hey, boss-man," Mort led, "you look good without the shades. Weird, but good."

"Thank you, Mort. Interesting to see your shade of skin."

"Yeah." Mort scratched himself. "Not a bad sack, is it? That Banshee is a helluva thing, guv."

"Yes." Scott agreed. "Would you like to try some? It's very unpredictable. You might complete your metamorphosis. End up a different shade. Regan, Martinique—who knows? Your illusions could be real."

They exchanged looks. "Thanks," Regan said from the kitchen. "But we're good as is."

"Yeah," Martinique agreed. "Messing with our chromosomes got us into this mess in the first place."

"Would you like anything, Mr. Summers?" Regan asked. "A drink, perhaps?"

Scott shook his head. "I'm full."

She brought out plates of reheated food, dropping them in front of Mort, and with a sniff, Regan. Then sitting down herself at Mort's table.

Scott took it back. Them being here didn't do anything to restore this place to its would-be glory. It just made a point of how desolate it was.

"Hey, Scotty," Mort called. "If you don't need the shades anymore—why do you call yourself Cyclops?"

"It is kinda a dorky name," Regan agreed.

"You could do better. Fearless Leader!"

They all joined in quickly. "Slim. Slim Dayspring. Something fantasy..."

"Just Red, I think—"

"Red Summer!"

"Basilisk!"

"Apocalypse!"

"Cyclops is fine," Scott reiterated.

"C'mon, mate!" Mort cried. "You gonna let someone what's named Professor X tell you what to call yourself?"

Regan kicked the table under him, Scott didn't need to be psychic to read her look. Too soon.

"Oh," Mort said. "Sorry, guv."

Scott nodded absently. He remembered when he'd first found them. Leading the X-Men. Just finding stray mutants, rescuing them, taking them back to the mansion to be protected and taught. Before the schism. Before the killing, and the deaths. He missed that simplicity. He missed Jean. He missed the look of himself in the mirror, red as it was...

They'd just been students. Not X-Men. Never like him. "I thought it was cool enough," he said shyly, and got up, hearing small laughter echoing in loneliness. "Masterminds, report to the flight deck, full gear and civilian luggage, 0800 hours. We're headed out."

Their affirmatives followed him out of the cafeteria. Are you missing Magneto yet? He wondered.

***

The trophy room had been cleaned since Magneto's death—part of their cover-up—but there was no concealing the damage that had been done to the room. In the end, they could merely hope it was taken as leftover from the initial incursion, or evidence of a brawl between two mutants. Not uncommon with the volatile personality of your average mutant terrorist.

Raven noticed this as she noticed all things. They swam in her subconscious, bubbling up when needed, free-thinking, mental association. Before, she had filed away that places in the room were definitely scorched, and had only thought that this was good. It would conceal Scott's involvement. Now she wondered how the concussive force of his optic blast had melted metal in places, singed carpeting, otherwise burnt the room. The Banshee? She wondered—filed it away again as she focused on the coin.

The coin sat on the floor. An old Deutschmark, the German eagle face-up. Rogue stared at it, seated on the floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She still wore her protective costume, even the gloves. Raven wondered if they were more concealment to the rest of the Brotherhood—or a comfort to her?

"It's alright, Marian," Raven said gently, standing in her white dress on the other side of the coin. "You can do it. Move the coin."

Rogue gave her an imploring look—for Raven to do what, neither of them knew—then focused on the coin. It moved. As did every other piece of metal in the room, the floor shifting, medals in their display cases flapping against the glass, Raven's keys flying from their pocket. Rogue stopped before they could glue themselves to her, as they had before.

With a growl, she was up on her feet. "Magneto had a lifetime to learn how to control this—it's not like telekinesis, it's—magnetic waves going through the atmosphere, all up and down the poles, the magnetosphere, and I'm supposed to—"

"Sweetie, no one expects you to learn it in one week."

"Scott does."

Raven reached out and ran her hand along Rogue's arm. "He doesn't. He just wants you to try. That's why he left it to me."

"Yeah..." Rogue looked away. Back off in her own little world—the chorus of souls she carried with her. Raven almost wished she was a part of that background noise. That Marian could feel her love for her wherever she went.

"Let's try a different tack," Raven said, kicking her keys up into her hand. She went to the corner, where she'd stowed a duffel bag between two cases. It'd had a hard time escaping during Rogue's attempt to use Magneto's power. "How are you with controlling metal you're in contact with? Have you been practicing?"

"Yeah. A lot. Not that it's easy, with a billion people around—not like any of them can know I have these powers." Or where she got them.

Raven nodded. She brought out the gauntlets first. "Titanium alloy. Move them, instead of the metal outside yourself. Effectively—you can punch someone with all Magneto's power." Then the boots. "Steel soles. You can levitate yourself, stick to walls." Then the chainmail. "I've seen Erik run a current of magnetic energy through his own armor, protect himself like a forcefield. Wear this under your clothes." Then the helmet. It was almost like Magneto's, except the slit had been filled with ruby-quartz—hiding the face. "Your clothes used to be a hiding place. Now they're weapons."

Concentrating, Rogue managed to pull the helmet to herself. Her reflection filled the red crystal. "This is like Scott's visor." She looked over the helmet to see Raven.

"We wear his colors now," Raven informed her.

"Or... if I ever took his power?"

"A lot of things can happen on a battlefield. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

"He's not Erik!" Rogue protested.

"I know that. I won't let him be. It's just in case he's incapacitated, but we still need him in a fight."

"I don't want him in my head, mother. It's crowded enough."

Raven went to her. She went slowly. Giving Rogue time to feel her approach, her nearness. Then she touched her. Marian gasped. Still not used to the strangeness of touch, much less Mystique's coolness, the raised whorls of her scales. Rogue stared at the hand cresting her chin like it was a supernatural visitation.

"You've given so much for the cause—carrying Magneto's power for us—I am so proud of you. You won't have to do anything you don't want to do. You've done enough."

"Please don't let go."

"I won't, dear."

But Rogue was vexed—poisoned. Like the hand was a burning iron, she pulled away from it, tears in her eyes. "I don't remember!"

Raven followed her. This time she put her hands on Rogue's shoulders. The girl was more used to being touched through cloth. "Tell me. Now." Her voice was warm, but left no room for disobedience.

"That night, with you... and Scott? It's all a blur. I was so many people then. I have all their memories. And they all felt differently—I don't know what to feel—which one was me. Part of me just sees you as my mother. And part of me... I have these dreams." Rogue reached up to put her hand over Raven's. "I remember how good you made me feel. Both of you made me..."

Raven spun Rogue around. She was wearing nothing. Her costume fallen away to the scaly blue hide she favored sometimes. She pulled Rogue to her and Rogue didn't know if she was going to be hugged, going to be kissed—

Scott walked in, finding the two women locked together. In the darkened room, they were one shadow. "I need some cover identities for a trip to the US. Myself and three women. Line of credit as well. We're going after Blob's daughter."

Raven let Rogue struggle away from her. "Really? Why now?"

"There's nothing more I can do here. This we probably won't be able to do it later, so we'll do it now."

Raven nodded. She was already grinning at the prospect of a day trip. Scott needed this, she thought. Had to need this if it was bad enough for him to ask for it. A break from everything. A divorce from Genosha. Time to rest, think—a milk run. "I'll have them ready in an hour. Would you like me to go as a man or as a woman? Man could be... interesting."

"You're not coming. It'll be me, Wanda, and the Masterminds."

Raven's eyes flashed yellow. "May I ask why?"

"I need you here to hold down the fort, impersonate me or Magneto if need be. You can manage that, right?"

"Yes. Quite."

"Good." Scott rubbed at his eyes. Even with the Banshee, their bloodshot nature nearly turned them red. "I'll be in my bunk."

"That's good," Raven said. "You should get some sleep before your mission."

He gave her a look Raven recognized all too well. Don't tell me what to do. He left without saying another word.

"Is he mad at you?" Rogue asked.

"Oh yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm who I am and he's who he is. Even now." Raven looked at her daughter. "Go to him. I know you want to. It'll be easier than with me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. He won't be sleeping anyway."

***

Scott laid in bed, half-awake. A world away, it was primetime in America. His TV lit up the dark room, a news program with its kaleidoscope of news tickers, graphics, split-screens. On one side, Jean Gray, the new headmistress of the Xavier Institute, was giving an interview. The other showed streaming footage of the relief efforts coordinated between the Ultimates and the X-Men. The devastation of New York was mostly contained—now they were helping with the clean-up. Their mutant gifts, their evolutionary advantages; gone to make garbagemen.

Still, he was relieved to see them. These people he had considered friends so long ago, it felt like he'd known them as a different man. They were alright. For now, at least. It was foolish for Jean to put herself out there so soon after the tragedy. The mob would be riled. They wouldn't care whether it was one unstable individual, the Brotherhood—just that it was mutants. Jean was giving them a target. Foolish, foolish girl.

The interview droned on. Some of the X-Men had left the school—the unspoken subtext, that they had feared reprisal—the rest were getting ready for Xavier's funeral, as soon as New York was no longer a disaster area. What really surprised Scott was how little he cared. He was concerned about the X-Men, of course, especially now, without the Professor... but Jean? He didn't think he could care less. Where had it gone, the overwhelming need to keep her safe, to be with her, to be hers... worthy of her? Had Raven drained it out of him. Replaced it, bit by bit, kiss by kiss, fuck by fuck, with herself? No. He didn't feel for her what he had felt for Jean.

He still remembered it, almost warningly. The sting of a hot stove, forever reminding you not to touch it. His love for Jean had burned. It'd been pure. Sweet. Light. It'd filled him.

He was full with Mystique too, but it wasn't all love. Not that puppy dog affection, that need, he'd had with Jean. No, there was resentment, frustration, mistrust, compromise. He wondered if what Charles had put in his head—if Charles had put anything there, if Erik wasn't lying—was some idealized thing. Maybe what he had with Raven was real love. Flawed. Tinged. Unreliable.

It made him wonder. He'd wanted to visit Xavier's grave before. Pay his respects. Should he thank him for giving him this thing with Jean, whatever it was? Or should he hate him for cursing him to know what it was like to have something you could never keep?

A knock hit the door. Scott muted the television. "Come."

Door opened. Head poked in. White streak through chestnut hair. Raven. Scott nodded to her in welcome. She stepped inside, glancing at the glaring TV screen, eyes narrowing at the sight of the caption. Jean Grey. "Is that your old girlfriend? She's pretty."

"Yes. Yes, she was."

Rogue stared. Scott had showered before bed—his hair was still wet. He laid atop the covers of the bed with the terrycloth towel still wrapped around his waist. It was all that covered his tanned, well-muscled body. She could see scars that she didn't remember him having. She wondered if they were new or if she just hadn't noticed them before.

Scott shifted, sitting up. His towel unsnapped from its binding, exposing a region of his hip and groin. Rogue saw where his pelvic bone dipped toward his groin.

"Can I help you with something?" Scott asked impatiently.

Rogue remembered, and tightly clutched the papers in her hand before holding them up. "Raven finished your documentation." Before she could think better of it, she walked it over to him, setting the papers down on the bed. This close, she could see the bulge of his cock under the towel. It was large, but flaccid. She felt disappointed at the lack of response.

Scott uncrossed his arms to shift through the papers. "Mr. and Mrs. William Dickson Boyce. Founder of the Boy Scouts of America. Cute." He tucked his arms back together, relaxing against the headboard. Rogue stared at the muscular arms—not enough to cover the thick growth of dark hair over his chest. She seated herself on the bed, feet pulled up, torso still aloft.

"Raven didn't think you would sleep."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She thought I should tell you a bedtime story."

Scott was far better at reacting to these kinds of things when he had ruby-quartz to cover the look in his eyes. "And you're going with her not being sarcastic there?"

Rogue stretched out, laying her head on his damp chest. Looking down, she could see a ways under his towel, some of the crisply curling hairs of his groin. Scott almost pulled away, but relaxed when he felt her porcelain skin strike against his with no sparks.

"How is this—"

"A micro-magnetic field," Rogue explained. "Bioelectric shield surrounding my body. If you really focus, you can feel the tingle of the electricity. It's just a few molecules apart, but I can—I can touch you."

"Magneto," Scott realized.

"Hush. Let me tell my story. Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince. He was the son of a wise old king, and everyone looked forward to the day when he would take the crown, to continue the happy kingdom's peace and prosperity."

Scott put his hand on Rogue's shoulder, bare between her shirt and her gloves. It was amazing. No matter how hard he pressed, nothing of his would go into her ravenous body. He felt a flicker of static, like the buzz of electricity from a high-voltage wire. That was all. "If the king was so great, why was everyone looking forward to the son taking the crown? Wouldn't they be the same either way?"

"It's a fairy tale, Scott, go with it." She kissed his chest. Her lips crackled. "Unfortunately, a wicked witch, despising the good kingdom and the happiness of the people, kidnapped the handsome prince and took him to her castle, where she enchanted him to fall into a deep slumber."

"Hate it when that happens."

"Shush," Rogue insisted emphatically. "Many years passed and the good kingdom fell into disarray. The crops wilted, the summer grew short, and the winter grew long. Though all the king's men searched and searched, none could find the handsome prince. Until finally, one day, a beautiful knight set out on a quest for him, vowing not to return until she had found the prince."

"A female knight?" Scott asked.

"Oh, the witch and the magic sleeping is okay, but girls can't be knights?"

"Just didn't know we were doing a politically correct thing."