X-Men Sagas: Psylocke

Forbidden Fruit

Led by the ever-grim Cyclops, the Blue Team were presently engaged in a battle against a horde of their less human foes; the alien race known as the Brood.

"Where these creeps even come from, and how they even get into de mansion?" The X-Men's resident charmer, Gambit, imbued a playing card with pure kinetic force and sent it flying towards one of the grotesque aliens. The explosion from between its stiletto-sharp teeth was enough to destroy the alien from within. Gambit had no time to fully take in the fuchsia explosion just one of his kinetic cards caused, for although one Brood had fallen, three more had come to avenge him. Besides, cool guys in earth-tone trenchcoats didn't bother to look back at explosions.

"Ah don't know, Remy, but if it's a fight they want, then the X-Men'll give one to 'em!" A woman responded. Southern and with a helping of rebellious spunk, the voice belonged to Rogue. She was as drawn to Gambit as he was to her, but the southern belle could never touch him, for her power forbade her from physical contact unless she wanted to drain someone's life force and/or their power. The Brood, however, were a different story, and Rogue was more than happy to make some (gloved) physical contact with them. Her blows, packing the impact of a freight train into every punch, were enough to send any sleazoid alien that came her way skidding onto their backs through the hallways of the Xavier Institute. That was Rogue holding back the majority of her strength. Had she used any more power, there would have been a considerably increased amount of alien guts lying around for the cleaning crew to mop up.

"Save some for the rest of us, bub!" Another of Rogue's teammates snarled. The savage man sprang into the air on the balls of his heels, his adamantium claws tearing through the aerial sleazoids chests as if they were mere house flies. No one was better than Wolverine at what he did best, but what he did best wasn't very sanitary. He retracted his claws from within the last Brood warrior (or rather, the last one in his vision). Splotches of thick, fungus-green blood tainted his once stainless pigstickers and gathered in puddles on the ground.

"My fellow mutants, perhaps we should be a bit more prudent on how we subjugate our alien invaders. I'm sure you're all aware of how long it took to get the bloodstains out of the last carpet..."

On and off the battlefield, the Beast retained his eloquence and lighthearted nature. Bounding from the staircase and landing nimbly on the back of yet another Brood warrior, his fists gripped the creature's reigns, purposefully guiding its flight away from young Jubilee and instead towards his visor-wielding superior and close friend Scott Summers, better known to the world at large as Cyclops. In a move made possible by years of going through Danger Room protocols, some of which his furry hide had barely walked away from intact, and his herculean agility, the Beast leapt into the air just in time to avoid a blast of extra-dimensional concussive energy that would have blasted him to smithereens along with his temporary bronco.

"Good job, Hank," the Blue Team's leader's praise stood in contrast to his grim expression; whatever expression could be seen due to his eyes needing to be covered or closed at all times. Cyclops possessed more power behind his visor than most men had in their entire bodies. Once a loyal student of Professor Charles Xavier, Cyclops had come into his own and after proving himself in more trials of fire than Napoleon himself, he was chosen to lead a team of X-Men whilst Storm led another. However, even the most astute of leaders had their flaws. No one, not even a mutant, could account for every possibility.

"Yo, Cyclops! Behind you!" Jubilee shouted a fraction of a second later than it would've taken the man in question to set his sights on the Brood before it had the chance to strike first. A powerful beam of concussive force did strike through the creature's carapace- but only after its jagged arm lunged forward and struck his chest. 

Fresh, unnaturally sanitised air. The whirring of multiple machines meant to monitor patients. Once his consciousness had returned to him, Cyclops estimated that he'd been wheeled off to the mansion's medical bay. He winced out of instinct. To fully unlid his eyes would mean unleashing havoc on everything around him. Oddly enough, the X-Man didn't feel any different. His chest felt perfectly fine.