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Chapter 159 – The Meeting
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 17:05:20 +0000 UTC
Genosha. A refuge island for mutants—if you could call it that.
When the Blackbird cut through the clouds and dropped onto the airstrip for the second time in a week, Erik Lehnsherr couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
Twice in one week. At this rate, the X-Men should start paying rent.
Of course, he couldn’t just fling the jet into the ocean like he wanted to. Instead, he walked out with a small squad of his people, forming a neat line of “welcoming” faces. One wrong word, one wrong move, and the X-Men would find themselves forcibly escorted off the island—via the nearest body of water.
The Brotherhood and the X-Men had a long history. Too long.
This time, however, it wasn’t that brash, hotheaded kid stepping off the plane. It was an old friend.
“Erik,” Hank McCoy greeted warmly, extending his hand.
For old time’s sake, Erik took it. His grip was firm, but his eyes narrowed. “You do realize we’re under constant surveillance by the U.S. military. Having the Blackbird land here every few days doesn’t exactly scream low profile.”
Hank gave his sheepish smile. “Believe me, I know. But this is urgent. Raven sent me.”
That name alone was enough to make Erik’s mouth twitch. “Raven? And what exactly did she say?”
Hank didn’t waste time. He quickly laid out the situation, finishing by producing a photograph. “She wants you to help us. The X-Men are half a team right now. We can’t handle an alien warship alone.”
Erik looked at the photo, then at Hank, and finally scoffed. “Handle it? We can’t even scratch it. You see something like this, you call the military. Not us.”
He tapped the blurry outline of the ship on the photo.
“Even an Omega-level mutant is just an infantryman. You can’t expect us to swat down starships. My reach only goes so far—I can bend metal, but I can’t yank a battleship out of orbit. Unless you have a plan to magically teleport us inside, we’re nothing more than apes throwing rocks at the sky.”
Finally—someone in the room was speaking sense.
What kind of strategist expected aliens to field massive starships, complete with weapons capable of glassing continents, and then—what?—send in ground troops for a sword fight? That would require an alien commander so incompetent he’d have to be promoted through sheer nepotism.
Hank winced but pressed on. “This photo is the only evidence we have. I’ve already contacted observatories, research stations, anyone capable of scanning orbit. Nothing. No one else can verify its existence. Even Dr. Richards, who helped me develop this print, couldn’t track it down.”
What Hank didn’t know was that Reed Richards had tried—for about thirty minutes. When he came up empty, he shrugged, filed it under “gone,” and went back to studying cosmic radiation patterns.
“Without proof,” Hank continued, “we can’t get the government to act. By the time there’s concrete evidence, it might be too late. That’s why we need you.”
“Ridiculous,” Erik muttered under his breath. Infantry against a warship. Even if every mutant alive was Omega-class, it would be suicide. One blast from a ship-mounted cannon and the entire island would be ash.
Hank, knowing Erik well, saw the refusal forming on his lips and rushed out the trump card: “Raven said… you owe her.”
That made Erik pause. His eyes narrowed. “And what exactly am I supposed to owe her?”
Hank coughed. “Nineteen seventy-three. You know what I’m talking about.”
Erik winced as though he’d bitten down on tinfoil. “That? After nearly twenty years she’s still holding on to it?”
“Erik…” Hank spread his hands. “You know how it is. To a woman, a debt is forever. And unless you apologized when I wasn’t around—and judging by how she never mentioned it, I’m guessing you didn’t—you still owe her.”
Erik ground his teeth.
Honestly, he’d all but forgotten about the incident. They’d both moved on, or so he thought. But apparently, Raven had just filed it away—waiting for the day it would be useful.
“Fine,” he finally said, relenting. “I’ll help. But understand this: I am not bringing an army into the United States. I’ll take only a select few. A strike team, nothing more. My goal will be to prove the ship exists and retrieve Jean. That’s it. The warship? That’s a problem for the military.”
“That’s all we ask,” Hank said with visible relief.
Erik turned to his followers. “Sunfire. Selene. Prepare yourselves—we leave for America shortly.”
Two stepped forward. On the surface, they looked human enough—just another man and woman. Except the woman’s hair was shaved into a violet buzzcut, while the man wore his dark hair in a braid so long it fell past his waist. The gender roles looked like they’d been flipped.
“Only two?” Hank asked, startled.
“They’re worth more than a dozen of your trainees,” Erik replied coldly. “And my presence alone on U.S. soil will be enough to make half the Pentagon lose sleep. Don’t push your luck.”
Hank sighed, conceding. “All right. But… we’re still waiting for one more.”
“Who?”
“An outs—”
“Ah-ha! Ladies and gentlemen, the party can finally begin!”
The voice came from the treeline. Everyone turned.
Out stepped a man dressed like a fever dream. A rose-red suit. Canary-yellow vest. Forest-green shirt. Brown tap-dancing shoes. His hair, slicked back in a greasy pompadour, was dyed neon green.
His face was caked in white powder, with a bulbous red clown nose, crimson-painted lips stretching up to his cheeks, black star-crosses painted over his eyes, and eyebrows painted red to match.
He strutted forward, hips swaying with every step, and announced in a sing-song voice:
“Knock, knock!”
Nobody answered.
“Who’s there?” he continued gleefully. “Soup!”
“Soup who?”
“Soup-er Joker!” He burst into manic laughter, doubling over at his own joke. “Ha! HAHAHAHA!”
The mutants of Genosha stared at him like he’d just dropped in from another planet.
And maybe, in a way, he had.
Comments
Romero
*do
Romero
What kind of shoes to frogs wear? Open-toad sandals.
Romero
That was actually kinda funny
