Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

The Evils of Necessity	By : Ksennin Category: X-men Comics > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 13050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Ultimate X-Men or any of the characters associated with the franchise. I make no money from publishing this.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
The old man watched the recorded footage and wondered how anyone could see these mistakes as human. As the telepath and the beast rutted—lovemaking was a human term—he saw all the ways their superhumanity had made them less than human. They moved too fast and too smoothly. Microexpressions colored their features, but in reaction to shared thoughts, not words or gestures. And their physicality; stamina, strength, enthusiasm, it was as far removed from human sexuality as pornography was from love.
It did strike him as tasteless, if not inhumane. Much like lingering on two dogs coupling, it simply denoted a lack of class.
Still, for bait to work, it must first be noticed.
He looked around the Krakoa complex’s control room. So much of it was like a TV studio, dedicated to the editing and broadcast of the livestream that paid for all this. Little pits were given over to the complex’s defenses and hunt teams. You had to crawl down into them on ladders. And most were watching the replay of the sex, edited on the fly to make it appear more bestial. If they weren’t, they were gossiping about what other X-Men might be persuaded to make a sex tape.
The old man ignored them. He was paying attention to the defense pit. The men there were formerly of Weapon X. They knew their jobs. When one stood, even the Genoshans listened. “I’m getting an unidentified on vector seven, matches no known flight profile.”
“X-Wing?” the old man asked, as the fat form of Mojo Adams, their host, the host, rambled toward them.
“No, but not far off.”
The old man stroked his patchy beard. “The Blackbird, built by Jonathan Silvercloud. His mutant power is extreme mechanical intuition. If he were born in the 17^th century, he could invent a stealth bomber.”
Mojo finally arrived, out of breath. “So why… are we… seeing it?”
The old man regarded him. “Because, as brilliant as this one man is, he is pitting his intellect against the millions of aerospace engineers around the world who have worked on radar technology, of which we have the very latest. Your very own show says it, Mr. Adams. A single mutant may be incredibly powerful, but pitted against ten normal men? A hundred? A thousand? A million? Numbers always win. And this is a numbers game. Give the order.”
The fat albino reared up in surprise. “You’re waiting for my—“
“This is your facility.”
“Fire, you idiots! Blow them out of the sky!”
***
Piloting the Blackbird cleared Scott’s head. The controls were much as the X-Wing’s had once been, as were the specs, though they’d diverged once Beast had taken over the X-Wing’s development and Forge had continued his innovations with the Blackbird.
Best of all, unlike on the X-Wing, the Blackbird’s cockpit was sealed. His team rode in the back. That was that.
He believed in mutant equality. He was willing to die for it. But he had to admit, if he were to judge mutantkind solely on the Brotherhood, that Sentinel switch would look awfully nice…
The door to the cabin jimmied open, letting in the sound of a raucous argument Pietro was having over someone looking at his sister. Rogue came through the open door, shut it behind her, and took the navigator’s seat, strapping herself in as soon as she was situated. Scott smiled at her. Raven would’ve deliberately left herself unrestrained, just to bug him.
“Mystique sent me,” she said, respectfully using her adopted mother’s mutant name. “Said you’d want someone to talk to.”
“Yeah.” Scott gave the read-outs one last check before turning to her. “What’s the round-up?”
Rogue worked at remembering the technical term before getting it. “You know me and Toad are with you. Juggernaut, Blob, Quicksilver—they just want to kill humans.”
“Will they take prisoners? I want hostages, not blood.”
“They’re none too worked up about the poor innocent mutants of Genosha. Except for Wanda. She’s got a lotta room for sand in her vagina.”
Scott half-smiled. “Interesting way to put it, but sure. The twins—?”
“Who knows? They never line up for the Christmas photos, you know?”
“And Mystique?”
“Well… you know how complicated that is.” Rogue started looking around. “You got anything to eat in here?”
“Like some corn nuts?”
“Yeah.”
“In the experimental piece of mutant technology?”
‘Yeah.”
“Check under your seat.”
Rogue reached down, feeling around for a bag. “Don’t think it’s some big deal. Yeah, I had the hots for you. I can’t touch anyone and half the people in my peer group are monsters. You have a six-pack; I wanna see your dick. Don’t take it too personal.”
Scott gripped the steering column tighter. “Look, Marian, Raven and I—“
“You’re fucking. It’s fine. She told me herself. Not a big deal,” she repeated. “Mystique may have raised me, but she ain’t my mother. Sometimes we’re more like best friends than that. Sometimes I’m a whiny little brat and she kicks my ass for it. It’s all fluid. It’s mutation. Ain’t like I was ever gonna grow up with white picket fences and a mommy and a daddy.”
Rogue came up for air, bearing a bag of corn nuts. Scott raised an eyebrow. He’d thought Forge was kidding.
“Just so you know,” Rogue finished, ripping the bag open. “I ain’t never gonna call you daddy.”
“Good: Raven calls me that already, so it’d be confusing.”
Rogue shivered. “I haven’t been this nauseated since I touched Blob with my bare hand.”
A light started flashing, corresponding with a shrill whine.
“What’s that?” Rogue asked, mouth full.
“Missile lock,” Scott said. “They’re shooting at us.”
***
“Target hit,” the fire control officer reported, not looking up from his console. “Tracking—confirm splashdown.”
“Sweep for survivors!” Mojo ordered, getting into the groove of commanding a junta. He beamed at the old man. “More contestants for the games.”
“Not too many, I should hope.” The old man coughed. “We only have so many inhibitors to go around.”
Mojo wedged his fat fingers together. “We’ll have to stop broadcasting live soon, record some stuff for later. Always leave the audience wanting more. This month, the death of the X-Men! Next month, the death of the Brotherhood! I could get a Nobel Prize! An Emmy, even!”
***
“Sir, search teams are not reporting in. Perimeter defense in proximity to the crash site has also gone dark.”
Mojo’s chins rolled with the concealment of his anger. “We’ve got over six hundred cameras on this island! Show me Humanity Beach!”
The many screens devoted to culling interview footage became views of the northern shoreline. The blue tide was cancerous with red, mangled Reaver bodies washing ashore or being dragged onto the pristine sand by the Brotherhood. They were bloodied but unbowed, emerging from the surf like statues being washed clean.
“Men!” Mojo shouted, jowls wagging. “Send more men! Shoot them! Knife them! Bite them!”
The old man was untouched by the room’s sudden frenzy. “Am I the only one who finds this… convenient?”
“I am putting on a show! I find it incredibly inconvenient!”
Ignoring Mojo’s curses, the old man opened his laptop. “Let’s check in on our guests… oh. Look. An escape attempt.”
Mojo grabbed the laptop from the old man to see Wolverine slipping one claw under Marvel Girl’s collar, then sliding the blade through it. “Open a feed to them, now!”
***
Conversation over, Mojo flew away from the camera to see that now the old man was looking at the main screen. Was there no pleasing him?
Then he saw the Brotherhood was moving inland. “Reaver Units 4 and 5 have gone dark,” a technician reported.
“I can see that!” Mojo watched a blue-skinned woman gun one of his cybernetic augments down. “Send more men! They could handle the X-Men, they can handle these—these!”
“The X-Men are children,” the old man said. “And we were still going to hunt the upperclassmen one at a time. We’re not equipped to deal with all of them and the Brotherhood!”
Mojo slapped at a nearby bulkhead. “So what do you suggest?”
“Retreat. We can still use Plan B.”
“No! No, no, no! I am not losing this studio! We’re getting better ratings than Keeping Up With The Kardashians and I haven’t even brought in the celebrity judges yet!”
Another anonymous technician raised his head. “Sir, I’m getting a communique on the secure channel. I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Mojo barreled his way over to the technician’s workstation, gesturing for him to pipe it through. Even as he reached his destination, a strong, clear voice was coming over the speakers.
“Krakoa Island, this is Captain America of the Ultimates. We are aware of your situation and stand ready to offer aid.”
***
“It’s a trap,” the old man said suddenly.
Mojo could’ve pulled his hair out. After some terse negotiation, he’d managed to get the rights to film and distribute the Ultimates fighting the Brotherhood, in perpetuity, as well as the rights to put any surviving mutants in the game. He was going to be a rich man, and he was already a rich man. He was going to be a rich man’s rich man. And his guest still couldn’t help but piss on his parade.
“We’ve got twenty million dollars of radar technology, all telling us that it is an official SHIELD Quinjet coming in for a landing. What more do you want?”
“Too convenient,” the old man insisted. “And the Brotherhood has illusionists.”
“One illusionist,” Mojo corrected. “Mastermind. And he’s with the Brotherhood, killing us.”
The old man shook his head resolutely. “Too damn convenient.”
The main screen switched to a view of the Quinjet strafing the Brotherhood incursion, dropping the Ultimates as it went. Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and more hit the Brotherhood like two thousand-strong armies compressed into two dozen combatants. Mojo watched as Thor’s axe took that blue bitch’s head off. Then he clapped.
- 4
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Evils of Necessity