Marius Laverne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
xp_emplate) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
xp_logs2025-05-31 10:35 am
xp_emplate) wrote in xp_logs2025-05-31 10:35 am
Incursion: Earthfall - Mask Off
After a night under the stars, Kyle and Marius begin experiencing some adverse effects – much to Molly’s dismay.
WARNING: Graphic medical procedures, body horror.
"I don't know, when did the itching start?" Kyle asked, his voice a strange calm that didn’t quite match the situation. He was crouched at Marius' feet, carefully propping the other man’s legs up on the first aid kit, but his movements were precise and efficient, like a man with too many drills under his belt. His claws – sharp and black-tipped – were out and catching on the plastic of the epi-pen, a reminder that this was an emergency, and every second counted. Marius’ uniform pants had already been tugged down to his thighs, exposing black boxer briefs stretched tight over muscular legs, the olive skin flushed and dotted with the occasional bead of sweat.
Kyle’s expression didn’t change, even though he could see the panic flashing in Marius’ wide eyes, his breath quickening. “Box breathing, man,” Kyle instructed, voice steady, “In for four, hold it for four, out for four, hold it. Keep it steady or I’m getting the oxygen masks out, and I really don’t want to subject you to any more goddamn mental trauma.” His gaze flickered briefly to Marius' constricting throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. He took a slow breath of his own, trying to rein in the nagging anxiety under the surface.
"Not . . . sure." Marius didn't even wince as the other man pressed the epipen against his thigh. "Stiff this morning. Thought it was the camping. Joints started to ache. Then it just came on." Thready breathing made his words short and clipped. The exposed skin of his leg showed an ugly mottled rash beginning to form, and the Australian's face was slicked in sweat. Gasping, he tried to get his elbows beneath him. "Help me . . . sit up."
The door opened to the Blackbird and Molly walked in, holding up her hands at the sight. "Woah! Um . . ." she said, turning her head and covering her face with her hand.
"Do . . . uh, if you guys are . . . boinking . . . I can come back?" she said, stabbing the air with a thumb as she did the universal 'I can head out' sign.
All she wanted to do was get some tools. Probably not the best time for that sorta thing out in the open, but who was she to judge?
Wait, wasn't Mr. Kyle going to marry the screaming lady?
“We’re not fucking, Jesus,” Kyle muttered, his voice edged with irritation as he pulled the now-empty epi-pen away. His free arm slid around Marius' waist, lifting him slightly. “Marius is allergic to space,” Kyle continued, his words coming out more clipped than he intended, “That’s a legit thing, one of the moon astronauts had it happen,” he added, trying to keep his tone light, even though the truth of the situation was anything but reassuring. Marius’ chest was rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps, and the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead only seemed to worsen.
"Mols, pop me an oxygen mask setup in case he needs it?" Kyle called, voice sharp, but without the panic he felt gnawing at his insides. Marius' platelets were fine. They had to be. This had to be an allergic reaction.
"Uh . . . okay," Molly said, holding up her hands as she looked for what he was talking about. It took some fumbling but luckily things were neatly labeled so she was able to grab the mask.
"It's ready. Dude, you do not look so good. Like . . . you're gray," she said to Marius. Okay not literally but he looked pretty pale.
Marius' breathing was transitioning from gasp to wheeze. A hand flew to his throat as if he were trying to loosen some invisible noose, and when he looked up at Kyle the whites were visible around his irises.
“Okay, fuck.” Kyle cursed under his breath, his hands shaking briefly as they fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. His claws were still out, and they spasmed at the motion, making the task more difficult than it should have been. After one frustrating attempt, and only a loose zip to show for it – he pulled the jacket off over his head.
“Molly, can you get one of his gloves off?” Kyle’s voice was tight, urgency creeping in despite his best efforts to keep it under control. His fingers still shook as he started rolling up his sleeve, but cloth was more forgiving than armored leather. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and tore open the packet with a sharp motion, his thoughts scattered for a split second before he focused again. “This is why we copy my goddamn healing factor before we go in, not ‘oh, I’ll be fine, I’ve got Scott in me,’” Kyle muttered bitterly, his words laced with frustration. The biting scent of the alcohol wipe on his forearm was barely noticeable against the growing panic that kept clawing at his throat.
Marius shook his head violently before Molly could get any nearer. "Not – marrow. Take you out. Have to . . ." He ran out of breath then, but completed the thought with a slashing motion across one wrist.
"Fuck. Fuck, yeah, right, I forgot. Shit. Can I say fuck a few more times today? Because I’m already over quota." Kyle's words tumbled out in a rush, a mix of frustration and dark humor as he shot a glance at Marius. "Next time we mission, you can stack me and Scott." He bared his teeth for a moment,, shaking off the irritation before turning back to the first aid kit. He reached for it again, grabbing another alcohol wipe and a pair of scalpel blades, each individually wrapped. The motions were too practiced, too familiar – this was a distressingly well rehearsed maneuver.
One wipe to the inside of Marius' elbow, disinfecting the area in preparation, then the scalpel – sharp and steady. A shallow cut – precise but fast, the blood barely rising to the surface. He quickly moved to clean his own hand with the second wipe, gritting his teeth as he sliced across the heel of his palm. The cut was shallow, just enough for the blood to ooze sluggishly along his palm, beading dark red. "Then you’ll only be allergic to hot Cheetos," he muttered "And Oreos."
The other man made a sound that might have been a snort, but his breathing was getting shallower. His eyes were beginning to close even as Kyle clamped his bleeding palm across the cut to the inside of his arm.
Molly watched the blood party with wide eyes and a vaguely grossed out look. It was like vampires, but weirder. "If one of you starts sparkling and goes bitey I'mma grab a stake," she said. She'd been a vampire slayer before. Well, kinda.
Blood contact didn't have the same energising effect on Marius as a marrow donation, nor did the effects last as long, but it was enough for a quick hit. After a few stressful seconds Marius felt his airway begin to relax; relieved, he collapsed over his knees, pulling increasingly deep breaths as the borrowed healing factor began to work.
"Offended," he managed. "Do I not have . . . natural sparkle?"
"You're Robert Pattinson's second fandom role, all broody rich kid with trauma," Kyle retorted, the words punctuated by a grunt as he finished taping a bandage over his wound. "Already put in the requisition for the Emplate-a-rangs. They’ve got your hand teeth on the edges—gonna make great saws." He swiped the bandaged hand over his forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair that clung to his skin. "Somebody go turn the AC back on, though. Who the hell turns the plane’s AC off in a goddamn desert?" His voice was laced with frustration, the comment more for himself than anyone else.
"That's his third one. He was Cedric Diggory first . . ." Molly said offhandedly as she glanced Kyle over.
"Dude, you don't look so hot either. Well, you look hot, just the sweaty kinda hot."
She reached over and touched his forehead. "Holy crap, you're burning up."
Did everyone have space flu?
“Well, that’s great, because I also feel like shit.” Kyle stepped back, his usual fluid grace gone as he leaned against one of the Blackbird seats, the exhaustion and frustration evident in his posture.
“Marius, are you dying anymore? How’s the space allergy?” He studied his suitemate – teammate-future-best man carefully – eyes scanning for any sign of deterioration. Marius’ breathing had evened out, his skin was regaining its color, and the rash seemed to be receding, just a little. "Better? Cool. Because I might need help.” His voice was tight with urgency, betraying the mild panic that was creeping in alongside nausea and the pounding of his own eardrums. He pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing the mottled bruising along his ribs and side – green, ochre, and angry red streaks of infection that married his skin.
Marius’ sharp double-take whipped the bleariness right out of his system. "We camp over a nest of scorpions? How're we both – what in the squirming fuck is that?"
Instinctively, the X-Man snapped back as something beneath Kyle's skin twitched. He might have almost taken it for a trick of his eyes, except a second later it moved again – this time to bulge, violent and long, as if the thing beneath was straining against its sheath of flesh.
Kyle's lean collapsed under a wave of nausea and stomach cramps. He stumbled into the seat, doubling over as his stomach churned violently. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mouth open as he struggled to steady himself. “I’m gonna boot,” he muttered weakly, though the words barely left his mouth before they were overtaken by the sudden, forceful expulsion. Vomit splattered over his lower legs and feet, and the acrid stench hit him like a slap. He gagged, his body convulsing as he retched again, spitting up bile and blood before another wave of nausea hit.
"Yargh!" Molly shrieked, quickly jumping back to avoid becoming Jackson Pollacked.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod . . . what is happening?!"
For once in his life Marius said nothing. He was already on his feet and hiking up his pants without ever turning his attention from Kyle. An odd calm had fallen; the combination of epinephrine and healing factor coursing through his system seemed to be washing away the panic right alongside whatever reaction he'd been having. Right now, there was only one thing to consider: something was wrong with his friend, and only one logical solution presented itself. Something his instincts told him needed to be done as quickly as possible.
The scalpel had fallen when Kyle had pulled away. Marius knelt to pick it up.
"Later," said Marius. "Mate, lie down. I'm going to get it out."
The answer was more retching, the sharp convulsions of Kyle’s body pulling him further into a full body heave. He convulsed, desperate for air, and heaved again – a gurgling cough followed by the violent expulsion of bile he’d almost choked on. He grabbed Marius' arm tightly, claws pressing into his skin. “Get it out, holy fuck, I can feel it,” Kyle’s voice was breathy, a ragged desperate panicked plea. "She's gonna have to hold me down." He gasped, as he fought another spasm.
"I hate everything . . ." Molly whined.
"Okay, uh . . . hang on." What happened next made sense in her head but definitely looked odd as she climbed on top of Kyle, using her knees to hold his legs, her hands to hold his arms, and the rest of her body to provide counterweight. Her eyes started to glow purple as she pushed down and nodded to Marius.
"Go."
Nodding, Marius knelt beside her and readied the scalpel. What did he know about anatomy? Not enough for surgery. And Molly, strong as she was, was still trying to control the movements of someone who out-massed her four times over. This was going to be messy, and not a bit sterile –
He paused. So close to other mutants, his body had automatically begun to secrete the tacky substance that dulled the pain when he latched onto his victims. Would it be enough for an impromptu surgery? Again, unlikely, but he had nothing else.
Marius ripped off one glove. Curling his fingers over the rima oris of his palm, he jammed the heel of his hand against Kyle's side and swiped as much analgesic chemical as he could across the lump growing over his friend's ribs. Then, before any of them could let second thoughts get the better of them, he placed the scalpel against the pulsing mass and began to cut.
The scalpel cut through Kyle's skin before the numbing effect had fully kicked in, and sent an immediate jolt of pain through his body. Instinct screamed fight and flight, and he struggled as the blade sliced into his side. He bit back profanity, turning it into a guttural raw noise, as he uselessly tried to kick against Molly's immensely strong grip. His breathing came out ragged as he panted through pain that eased into numbness.
The fire of being sliced into gone, he made the mistake of glancing down. He should have known better, but the demand to know what the hell was going on was louder than any common sense could have ever been. The scalpel parted muscle and sinew, revealing a squirming mass bloated with milky pus and thick chunks of greasy sebum caught in a delicate net of chitin that writhed away from Marius' scalpel.
"What's happening? I can't look down but something smells REALLY bad," Molly said, trying to peek over but not being able to get a good look due to the angle she was sitting.
"One . . . moment . . ." Now that it had been exposed it wasn't actually that large. Around the size of a golfball, perhaps, and in some kind of pale sac. The word "encapsulated" came to mind, as if Kyle's body was trying to wall off whatever was growing there. Wet filaments had managed to pierce through, snaking outward to infiltrate the surrounding muscle, but the thing itself seemed like something he could just . . . about . . .
Marius closed the fingers of one hand around the thing and pulled outwards, slipping the scalpel below to excise the mass from whatever tether of flesh held it there. The filiments tore away with the sensation of ripping thread, but the primary mass was free.
Relief. Relief felt like bliss when what it replaced was panic and revulsion. Kyle sagged under Molly's stalwart pressure, sweat darkening the neck of his shirt. "Dunno if I want an explanation," he muttered.
"You do not. How are you – AH!" The blood-slicked thing in Marius' hand suddenly spasmed. Instinctively, the Australian flung it away from the three of them. It hit the floor with a wet smack.
It was throbbing.
Molly's attention snapped toward the pulsing, squirming thing on the ground. Her eyes widened, and she abruptly sprung off of Kyle like a frog, landing on the mass with a heavy splat of her boots. White creamy pus splattered everywhere. Her monster hunting skills from Sif came in handy.
Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she sighed. "Well, that was totally the most horrible thing ever."
"Agreed," said Marius, whose brain was still working to process both the extraction and Molly's utterly pragmatic resolution of the issue. He was feeling light-headed now that the adrenaline started to taper off. He was also acutely aware he was now covered in fluids. Grimacing, he turned back to Kyle.
"Alive down there, mate?"
"Prob'ly." Kyle picked his head up, glanced at the smears on the floor, and then sagged against the seat. His side ached, burned a little, and everything smelled like sweet rotting mushrooms. "Gonna workshop a quip for later, right now, too traumatized."
Back on the ship, Clint and Matt suddenly find the situation has escalated.
"Where did your comrade go?"
The man addressing Clint had not introduced himself. In fact, despite the fact this was now Clint and Molly’s second day assisting in repairs, none of the dozen or so visitors aside from Samedar and K’r’k had seen fit to do so. The handful who were working with them on the bridge had been largely silent, even when apparently conferring with one another about some form of damage or interesting bit of design. More than the feathers crowning their heads, it was this behavior that marked them as truly alien.
The one now addressing Clint seemed to be some sort of overseer: he didn't seem to participate in any of the repair work, but anything that needed to be communicated with the mutants was relayed through him. He was short and squat for his race, and his eyebrows drew inevitable comparison to a crested penguin.
"She went outside to grab a couple extra tools and some snacks," Clint answered, head stuck inside the paneling beneath one of the control tables. "There's a couple things in here I can't quite reach with what I've got in my bag, so . . . also, me and Matt are kinda hungry."
Matt's job had mostly been to hand Clint tools, but at least he was trying to help. Machines, outside of the ones he tended to use often, were not his friend. The silent aliens bothered him. The silence. He could hear them move, hear their heartbeats, or what he assumed was a heart. The lack of communication that he could pick up bothered him though, more than he wanted to admit. He would get used to it if he had to, but it was incredibly, to use the obvious, alien. "Think my arms might reach?" Matt asked, not that he was confident in his ability to truly assist.
"Ah, probably not, bro," Clint said, smiling despite himself. "I've got a longer reach than you . . ." He trailed off as he moved a piece of debris to put it on the floor and caught sight of a section of wiring that seemed to have only been disconnected as opposed to completely smashed like a lot of the other things on the bridge. "Huh . . ." Reaching out, he shoved himself deeper into the console with his feet and began plugging the wires back into their helpful array of varied gray plugs. At least the grays had identifiable differences in shade and matched the plastic covering the wires.
Almost immediately a mechanical voice announced, "ALERT, ALERT, INVADERS!" in what was likely several languages.
Matt stiffened, tugging Clint's foot hard as he stood up.
As the alert continued to blare that same voice emerged from some hidden speaker beside the two men, now addressing them exclusively in English.
"Terrans," it said with unusual urgency from what was so clearly a synthetic voice. "Listen. We were boarded. They waited until my crew were in cryosleep to move. I jumped us to quarantine the infection, but –"
A blast of energy, so close to Clint he could feel the heat of it on his cheek, struck the console. Voice and alarm both cut off with an electric squeal.
"Clearly a malfunction," said the overseer, staring at the two men with unblinking eyes. He had not lowered his gun.
Clint sat up slowly, hands visible as he moved from his position within the console to standing beside Matt. "Yeah," he said, gripping his brother's forearm so his fingers were hidden from the apparent invaders. "Totally weird malfunction," he agreed affably, tapping 'fight' against Matt's inner wrist in Morse code with one finger. "AIs can be like that, though, especially when there's onboard damage like what we're seeing here."
Subtly, Matt shifted his weight, pulling out his billy clubs and springing to action, the sounds and smells of the aliens shifting as he moved. What else was going to happen? Matt was an excellent person to break things though. Fixing them? Not so much.
There was no perceptible signal exchanged – the aliens simply went from unnerving attention to moving almost as one, and as they moved they changed. Skin hardened to chitin as broadly human features stretched into masks of multifaceted eyes and protuberant teeth. As they rushed the two men the bridge was filled with a rush of sound almost like the stridulation of locusts.
"Oh gross," Clint muttered, releasing Matt's wrist. "That's just entirely unnecessary," he continued, already reaching for his pockets to see which coins would be most useful considering the way the fake crewmembers were shifting. "We've got bugs," Clint said, making sure his brother could hear him. "Pretty heavily armored," he said, already aiming quarters at several creatures' eyes. "Eyes are a vulnerability," he said a moment later as compound eyes on three creatures shattered inward. "Void random limbs. Dunno if they can inject poison or anything."
Fifteen seconds later, one of those scorpion-like tails went through the gravity controls.
Outside the ship, Bobbi and Namor have an unpleasantly close encounter. The situation has officially become all-hands-on-deck.
"I can't believe this fucking thing doesn't even have solitaire or some stupid thing like that," Bobbi grumbled, smacking her phone as if that'd help the innocent device to magically obtain an app to help her kill the time. There was zero reception and she hadn't bothered to do much with her work phone since coming back across the pond, much to her chagrin. So she just paced back and forth, trying not to think about how hot it was and wishing she'd had a little bit more foresight before agreeing to come along on their current multi-day mission.
A weight struck her back with a whirr of locust wings and the force of a freight train, spinning the phone from her hand. Before Bobbi could even register what was happening her neck and waist were encircled with something like the arms of an octopus to hold her firm. A chitinous jaw pressed against her ear, and hissed.
"I take you for the Empress, mammal."
Her phone hit the dirt. Her vision tunneled. Something stabbed her in the side —
— and then, nothing. Only the sound of air displaced by something incredibly fast and incredibly angry.
In the next instant, the hostile creature was no longer whole. Where its chest had been was now a gaping aperture, punched clean through with surgical violence, leaving a grotesque lattice of shattered carapace through which framed Namor like a portrait in ruin. He did not look pleased. In one of the Atlantean's hands, something pulsed — a heart, probably. Or an approximation of one.
He let it drop with a sound that was more wet than solid.
"I had hoped for at least a monologue if there were hostiles," Namor said, brushing a fleck of ichor from his wrist. "Or an ultimatum. Some declaration of righteous conquest. Not . . ." He glanced at Bobbi. "Poor aim."
"P-poor . . . wh-what?" Bobbi grunted, staggering to one side before barely catching herself and reaching out for Namor with one hand while clutching the one that'd been stabbed with her other. "The fuck was that?" she managed to hiss after another shaky intake of breath. Her vision was blurry as she squinted at Namor's hand and whatever substance was on it, then down at the ploppy mess on the ground.
Namor caught her hand without ceremony, steadying, though his attention never wavered from the broken thing at their feet.
"There are creatures in the abyss," he said, voice low, "that mimic the faces of gods to lure the unwary. Shapes without spirit. This one moved like a drone – a soldier only set on the kill. But, why . . . you." It wasn't exactly a question.
The ruin of chitin and ichor twitched. A wet, splitting sound broke the stillness as the jagged aperture of its chest folded inward like reverse footage of a flower blooming.
Namor's mouth drew into a sharper line. He stepped forward, placing himself like a shield between the corpse and Bobbi, as the torn exoskeleton knit itself back into the shape of the Admiral Samedar, bones and armor flowing into feathers with unnatural fluidity.
"Ah," he amended, "so they wear masks. Better."
Clutching Namor's hand far tighter than she'd ever admit to later on, Bobbi shuffled in place, still clutching her injured side as she stared down at the transformed corpse on the ground below them. "M-mask . . . yeah, I see what you mean," she said, in her dazed state finally realizing it wasn't an actual mask but a disguise . . . which, well, was also literal if you thought about it, but that was the thing; it was hard for her to think, to do anything in the moment.
". . . the fuck did it do to me?" she asked, afraid to remove her hand from her wound to actually discover the answer to her own question.
Namor did not answer immediately. The Atlantean crouched as much as he could to examine her wound while still providing support — his free hand hovered just short of the torn fabric, but not close enough to touch. His scrutiny, meanwhile, was not drawn to the wound itself, but the shape of it.
"A probing strike," he murmured, half to himself. "Not to kill. Intentional. A mark."
Then his gaze found her's again.
"You will live."
These were not words of comfort, but instead command. He stood.
"Call your X-Men. Time to justify the trust We have placed in them."
Bobbi took a deep breath and forced herself to become calm – well, calmer, at least – before activating her comms to update everyone else on what had just transpired.
"This is Mockingbird, Submariner and I have been attacked, all hands be on guard," she said, wincing at the pang of pain in her penetrated side. There was what might have been an indignant scoff in the background. "Everyone report in with your status, over."
"Emplate here," came the immediate response over the comms, "Wildchild and Bruiser are with me. All's under control, but we . . . ah, perhaps you should say your thing first. Attacked?"
"Affirmative," she grunted. "Stabbed, if you want to get specific, by some kind of insectoid or . . . fuck, I don't know," Bobbi admitted, the pain forcing a hissed intake from her and letting her usual professional mask slip just a notch or two. "Capable of flight and fast moving, so be on alert."
"Ah?" Marius glanced at the mass of gore now smeared across the floor of the Blackbird. "Well, I was having what I thought to be some sort of allergic reaction to an insect bite incurred during last night's camp until something tried to climb out of Kyle's side. No worries, we got it out. I suspect healing factors don't quite agree with them." He paused. "You . . . don't have one of those, do you?"
"Not like that, no," she confirmed. "Better than the average bear, but not that enhanced. Hopefully that'll be enough though," Bobbi added. "Glad to hear you got it out though, I'm very interested in achieving that result for myself, if you have any advice to impart."
Marius thought of Kyle. "Ah . . . none I would actually recommend."
"Hawkeye and Daredevil on the bridge," Clint said, voice even but obviously strained as shots could be heard around him through the comm. "Currently under attack. Daredevil's . . . got a gun. He accidentally shot me a little bit. I'm fine. I'm running out of quarters and other things to throw. Ship's AI's back on. That seemed to trigger the crew we were working with to turn into . . . shit – hang on – " Something large crashed in the background. "Shoot the other way, bro!" It took several long moments of obvious fighting before he was able to return to giving their sitrep. "Turned into bugs. Can confirm very fast. AI says hi. Real crew's in cryogenic sleep."
"Cryogenic sleep?" Bobbi repeated, her mind snapping back to the earlier inspection her and Kyle did on board the ship. "I know where that is," she spat out, picturing the door with the puzzling English word CRYO in bold letters on it. "We need to get back there, stat. We'll send you back up while the rest of us go back to the ship and find out what the hell's going on here."
For once, the Australian's response was clipped and professional.
"Acknowledged, Mockingbird. On our way."
"Oh, and whoever comes to the bridge, be advised – gravity is fucked. It's like walking through a swimming pool," Clint tossed in before refocusing on throwing tools at the bug things.
WARNING: Graphic medical procedures, body horror.
"I don't know, when did the itching start?" Kyle asked, his voice a strange calm that didn’t quite match the situation. He was crouched at Marius' feet, carefully propping the other man’s legs up on the first aid kit, but his movements were precise and efficient, like a man with too many drills under his belt. His claws – sharp and black-tipped – were out and catching on the plastic of the epi-pen, a reminder that this was an emergency, and every second counted. Marius’ uniform pants had already been tugged down to his thighs, exposing black boxer briefs stretched tight over muscular legs, the olive skin flushed and dotted with the occasional bead of sweat.
Kyle’s expression didn’t change, even though he could see the panic flashing in Marius’ wide eyes, his breath quickening. “Box breathing, man,” Kyle instructed, voice steady, “In for four, hold it for four, out for four, hold it. Keep it steady or I’m getting the oxygen masks out, and I really don’t want to subject you to any more goddamn mental trauma.” His gaze flickered briefly to Marius' constricting throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. He took a slow breath of his own, trying to rein in the nagging anxiety under the surface.
"Not . . . sure." Marius didn't even wince as the other man pressed the epipen against his thigh. "Stiff this morning. Thought it was the camping. Joints started to ache. Then it just came on." Thready breathing made his words short and clipped. The exposed skin of his leg showed an ugly mottled rash beginning to form, and the Australian's face was slicked in sweat. Gasping, he tried to get his elbows beneath him. "Help me . . . sit up."
The door opened to the Blackbird and Molly walked in, holding up her hands at the sight. "Woah! Um . . ." she said, turning her head and covering her face with her hand.
"Do . . . uh, if you guys are . . . boinking . . . I can come back?" she said, stabbing the air with a thumb as she did the universal 'I can head out' sign.
All she wanted to do was get some tools. Probably not the best time for that sorta thing out in the open, but who was she to judge?
Wait, wasn't Mr. Kyle going to marry the screaming lady?
“We’re not fucking, Jesus,” Kyle muttered, his voice edged with irritation as he pulled the now-empty epi-pen away. His free arm slid around Marius' waist, lifting him slightly. “Marius is allergic to space,” Kyle continued, his words coming out more clipped than he intended, “That’s a legit thing, one of the moon astronauts had it happen,” he added, trying to keep his tone light, even though the truth of the situation was anything but reassuring. Marius’ chest was rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps, and the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead only seemed to worsen.
"Mols, pop me an oxygen mask setup in case he needs it?" Kyle called, voice sharp, but without the panic he felt gnawing at his insides. Marius' platelets were fine. They had to be. This had to be an allergic reaction.
"Uh . . . okay," Molly said, holding up her hands as she looked for what he was talking about. It took some fumbling but luckily things were neatly labeled so she was able to grab the mask.
"It's ready. Dude, you do not look so good. Like . . . you're gray," she said to Marius. Okay not literally but he looked pretty pale.
Marius' breathing was transitioning from gasp to wheeze. A hand flew to his throat as if he were trying to loosen some invisible noose, and when he looked up at Kyle the whites were visible around his irises.
“Okay, fuck.” Kyle cursed under his breath, his hands shaking briefly as they fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. His claws were still out, and they spasmed at the motion, making the task more difficult than it should have been. After one frustrating attempt, and only a loose zip to show for it – he pulled the jacket off over his head.
“Molly, can you get one of his gloves off?” Kyle’s voice was tight, urgency creeping in despite his best efforts to keep it under control. His fingers still shook as he started rolling up his sleeve, but cloth was more forgiving than armored leather. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and tore open the packet with a sharp motion, his thoughts scattered for a split second before he focused again. “This is why we copy my goddamn healing factor before we go in, not ‘oh, I’ll be fine, I’ve got Scott in me,’” Kyle muttered bitterly, his words laced with frustration. The biting scent of the alcohol wipe on his forearm was barely noticeable against the growing panic that kept clawing at his throat.
Marius shook his head violently before Molly could get any nearer. "Not – marrow. Take you out. Have to . . ." He ran out of breath then, but completed the thought with a slashing motion across one wrist.
"Fuck. Fuck, yeah, right, I forgot. Shit. Can I say fuck a few more times today? Because I’m already over quota." Kyle's words tumbled out in a rush, a mix of frustration and dark humor as he shot a glance at Marius. "Next time we mission, you can stack me and Scott." He bared his teeth for a moment,, shaking off the irritation before turning back to the first aid kit. He reached for it again, grabbing another alcohol wipe and a pair of scalpel blades, each individually wrapped. The motions were too practiced, too familiar – this was a distressingly well rehearsed maneuver.
One wipe to the inside of Marius' elbow, disinfecting the area in preparation, then the scalpel – sharp and steady. A shallow cut – precise but fast, the blood barely rising to the surface. He quickly moved to clean his own hand with the second wipe, gritting his teeth as he sliced across the heel of his palm. The cut was shallow, just enough for the blood to ooze sluggishly along his palm, beading dark red. "Then you’ll only be allergic to hot Cheetos," he muttered "And Oreos."
The other man made a sound that might have been a snort, but his breathing was getting shallower. His eyes were beginning to close even as Kyle clamped his bleeding palm across the cut to the inside of his arm.
Molly watched the blood party with wide eyes and a vaguely grossed out look. It was like vampires, but weirder. "If one of you starts sparkling and goes bitey I'mma grab a stake," she said. She'd been a vampire slayer before. Well, kinda.
Blood contact didn't have the same energising effect on Marius as a marrow donation, nor did the effects last as long, but it was enough for a quick hit. After a few stressful seconds Marius felt his airway begin to relax; relieved, he collapsed over his knees, pulling increasingly deep breaths as the borrowed healing factor began to work.
"Offended," he managed. "Do I not have . . . natural sparkle?"
"You're Robert Pattinson's second fandom role, all broody rich kid with trauma," Kyle retorted, the words punctuated by a grunt as he finished taping a bandage over his wound. "Already put in the requisition for the Emplate-a-rangs. They’ve got your hand teeth on the edges—gonna make great saws." He swiped the bandaged hand over his forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair that clung to his skin. "Somebody go turn the AC back on, though. Who the hell turns the plane’s AC off in a goddamn desert?" His voice was laced with frustration, the comment more for himself than anyone else.
"That's his third one. He was Cedric Diggory first . . ." Molly said offhandedly as she glanced Kyle over.
"Dude, you don't look so hot either. Well, you look hot, just the sweaty kinda hot."
She reached over and touched his forehead. "Holy crap, you're burning up."
Did everyone have space flu?
“Well, that’s great, because I also feel like shit.” Kyle stepped back, his usual fluid grace gone as he leaned against one of the Blackbird seats, the exhaustion and frustration evident in his posture.
“Marius, are you dying anymore? How’s the space allergy?” He studied his suitemate – teammate-future-best man carefully – eyes scanning for any sign of deterioration. Marius’ breathing had evened out, his skin was regaining its color, and the rash seemed to be receding, just a little. "Better? Cool. Because I might need help.” His voice was tight with urgency, betraying the mild panic that was creeping in alongside nausea and the pounding of his own eardrums. He pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing the mottled bruising along his ribs and side – green, ochre, and angry red streaks of infection that married his skin.
Marius’ sharp double-take whipped the bleariness right out of his system. "We camp over a nest of scorpions? How're we both – what in the squirming fuck is that?"
Instinctively, the X-Man snapped back as something beneath Kyle's skin twitched. He might have almost taken it for a trick of his eyes, except a second later it moved again – this time to bulge, violent and long, as if the thing beneath was straining against its sheath of flesh.
Kyle's lean collapsed under a wave of nausea and stomach cramps. He stumbled into the seat, doubling over as his stomach churned violently. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mouth open as he struggled to steady himself. “I’m gonna boot,” he muttered weakly, though the words barely left his mouth before they were overtaken by the sudden, forceful expulsion. Vomit splattered over his lower legs and feet, and the acrid stench hit him like a slap. He gagged, his body convulsing as he retched again, spitting up bile and blood before another wave of nausea hit.
"Yargh!" Molly shrieked, quickly jumping back to avoid becoming Jackson Pollacked.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod . . . what is happening?!"
For once in his life Marius said nothing. He was already on his feet and hiking up his pants without ever turning his attention from Kyle. An odd calm had fallen; the combination of epinephrine and healing factor coursing through his system seemed to be washing away the panic right alongside whatever reaction he'd been having. Right now, there was only one thing to consider: something was wrong with his friend, and only one logical solution presented itself. Something his instincts told him needed to be done as quickly as possible.
The scalpel had fallen when Kyle had pulled away. Marius knelt to pick it up.
"Later," said Marius. "Mate, lie down. I'm going to get it out."
The answer was more retching, the sharp convulsions of Kyle’s body pulling him further into a full body heave. He convulsed, desperate for air, and heaved again – a gurgling cough followed by the violent expulsion of bile he’d almost choked on. He grabbed Marius' arm tightly, claws pressing into his skin. “Get it out, holy fuck, I can feel it,” Kyle’s voice was breathy, a ragged desperate panicked plea. "She's gonna have to hold me down." He gasped, as he fought another spasm.
"I hate everything . . ." Molly whined.
"Okay, uh . . . hang on." What happened next made sense in her head but definitely looked odd as she climbed on top of Kyle, using her knees to hold his legs, her hands to hold his arms, and the rest of her body to provide counterweight. Her eyes started to glow purple as she pushed down and nodded to Marius.
"Go."
Nodding, Marius knelt beside her and readied the scalpel. What did he know about anatomy? Not enough for surgery. And Molly, strong as she was, was still trying to control the movements of someone who out-massed her four times over. This was going to be messy, and not a bit sterile –
He paused. So close to other mutants, his body had automatically begun to secrete the tacky substance that dulled the pain when he latched onto his victims. Would it be enough for an impromptu surgery? Again, unlikely, but he had nothing else.
Marius ripped off one glove. Curling his fingers over the rima oris of his palm, he jammed the heel of his hand against Kyle's side and swiped as much analgesic chemical as he could across the lump growing over his friend's ribs. Then, before any of them could let second thoughts get the better of them, he placed the scalpel against the pulsing mass and began to cut.
The scalpel cut through Kyle's skin before the numbing effect had fully kicked in, and sent an immediate jolt of pain through his body. Instinct screamed fight and flight, and he struggled as the blade sliced into his side. He bit back profanity, turning it into a guttural raw noise, as he uselessly tried to kick against Molly's immensely strong grip. His breathing came out ragged as he panted through pain that eased into numbness.
The fire of being sliced into gone, he made the mistake of glancing down. He should have known better, but the demand to know what the hell was going on was louder than any common sense could have ever been. The scalpel parted muscle and sinew, revealing a squirming mass bloated with milky pus and thick chunks of greasy sebum caught in a delicate net of chitin that writhed away from Marius' scalpel.
"What's happening? I can't look down but something smells REALLY bad," Molly said, trying to peek over but not being able to get a good look due to the angle she was sitting.
"One . . . moment . . ." Now that it had been exposed it wasn't actually that large. Around the size of a golfball, perhaps, and in some kind of pale sac. The word "encapsulated" came to mind, as if Kyle's body was trying to wall off whatever was growing there. Wet filaments had managed to pierce through, snaking outward to infiltrate the surrounding muscle, but the thing itself seemed like something he could just . . . about . . .
Marius closed the fingers of one hand around the thing and pulled outwards, slipping the scalpel below to excise the mass from whatever tether of flesh held it there. The filiments tore away with the sensation of ripping thread, but the primary mass was free.
Relief. Relief felt like bliss when what it replaced was panic and revulsion. Kyle sagged under Molly's stalwart pressure, sweat darkening the neck of his shirt. "Dunno if I want an explanation," he muttered.
"You do not. How are you – AH!" The blood-slicked thing in Marius' hand suddenly spasmed. Instinctively, the Australian flung it away from the three of them. It hit the floor with a wet smack.
It was throbbing.
Molly's attention snapped toward the pulsing, squirming thing on the ground. Her eyes widened, and she abruptly sprung off of Kyle like a frog, landing on the mass with a heavy splat of her boots. White creamy pus splattered everywhere. Her monster hunting skills from Sif came in handy.
Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she sighed. "Well, that was totally the most horrible thing ever."
"Agreed," said Marius, whose brain was still working to process both the extraction and Molly's utterly pragmatic resolution of the issue. He was feeling light-headed now that the adrenaline started to taper off. He was also acutely aware he was now covered in fluids. Grimacing, he turned back to Kyle.
"Alive down there, mate?"
"Prob'ly." Kyle picked his head up, glanced at the smears on the floor, and then sagged against the seat. His side ached, burned a little, and everything smelled like sweet rotting mushrooms. "Gonna workshop a quip for later, right now, too traumatized."
Back on the ship, Clint and Matt suddenly find the situation has escalated.
"Where did your comrade go?"
The man addressing Clint had not introduced himself. In fact, despite the fact this was now Clint and Molly’s second day assisting in repairs, none of the dozen or so visitors aside from Samedar and K’r’k had seen fit to do so. The handful who were working with them on the bridge had been largely silent, even when apparently conferring with one another about some form of damage or interesting bit of design. More than the feathers crowning their heads, it was this behavior that marked them as truly alien.
The one now addressing Clint seemed to be some sort of overseer: he didn't seem to participate in any of the repair work, but anything that needed to be communicated with the mutants was relayed through him. He was short and squat for his race, and his eyebrows drew inevitable comparison to a crested penguin.
"She went outside to grab a couple extra tools and some snacks," Clint answered, head stuck inside the paneling beneath one of the control tables. "There's a couple things in here I can't quite reach with what I've got in my bag, so . . . also, me and Matt are kinda hungry."
Matt's job had mostly been to hand Clint tools, but at least he was trying to help. Machines, outside of the ones he tended to use often, were not his friend. The silent aliens bothered him. The silence. He could hear them move, hear their heartbeats, or what he assumed was a heart. The lack of communication that he could pick up bothered him though, more than he wanted to admit. He would get used to it if he had to, but it was incredibly, to use the obvious, alien. "Think my arms might reach?" Matt asked, not that he was confident in his ability to truly assist.
"Ah, probably not, bro," Clint said, smiling despite himself. "I've got a longer reach than you . . ." He trailed off as he moved a piece of debris to put it on the floor and caught sight of a section of wiring that seemed to have only been disconnected as opposed to completely smashed like a lot of the other things on the bridge. "Huh . . ." Reaching out, he shoved himself deeper into the console with his feet and began plugging the wires back into their helpful array of varied gray plugs. At least the grays had identifiable differences in shade and matched the plastic covering the wires.
Almost immediately a mechanical voice announced, "ALERT, ALERT, INVADERS!" in what was likely several languages.
Matt stiffened, tugging Clint's foot hard as he stood up.
As the alert continued to blare that same voice emerged from some hidden speaker beside the two men, now addressing them exclusively in English.
"Terrans," it said with unusual urgency from what was so clearly a synthetic voice. "Listen. We were boarded. They waited until my crew were in cryosleep to move. I jumped us to quarantine the infection, but –"
A blast of energy, so close to Clint he could feel the heat of it on his cheek, struck the console. Voice and alarm both cut off with an electric squeal.
"Clearly a malfunction," said the overseer, staring at the two men with unblinking eyes. He had not lowered his gun.
Clint sat up slowly, hands visible as he moved from his position within the console to standing beside Matt. "Yeah," he said, gripping his brother's forearm so his fingers were hidden from the apparent invaders. "Totally weird malfunction," he agreed affably, tapping 'fight' against Matt's inner wrist in Morse code with one finger. "AIs can be like that, though, especially when there's onboard damage like what we're seeing here."
Subtly, Matt shifted his weight, pulling out his billy clubs and springing to action, the sounds and smells of the aliens shifting as he moved. What else was going to happen? Matt was an excellent person to break things though. Fixing them? Not so much.
There was no perceptible signal exchanged – the aliens simply went from unnerving attention to moving almost as one, and as they moved they changed. Skin hardened to chitin as broadly human features stretched into masks of multifaceted eyes and protuberant teeth. As they rushed the two men the bridge was filled with a rush of sound almost like the stridulation of locusts.
"Oh gross," Clint muttered, releasing Matt's wrist. "That's just entirely unnecessary," he continued, already reaching for his pockets to see which coins would be most useful considering the way the fake crewmembers were shifting. "We've got bugs," Clint said, making sure his brother could hear him. "Pretty heavily armored," he said, already aiming quarters at several creatures' eyes. "Eyes are a vulnerability," he said a moment later as compound eyes on three creatures shattered inward. "Void random limbs. Dunno if they can inject poison or anything."
Fifteen seconds later, one of those scorpion-like tails went through the gravity controls.
Outside the ship, Bobbi and Namor have an unpleasantly close encounter. The situation has officially become all-hands-on-deck.
"I can't believe this fucking thing doesn't even have solitaire or some stupid thing like that," Bobbi grumbled, smacking her phone as if that'd help the innocent device to magically obtain an app to help her kill the time. There was zero reception and she hadn't bothered to do much with her work phone since coming back across the pond, much to her chagrin. So she just paced back and forth, trying not to think about how hot it was and wishing she'd had a little bit more foresight before agreeing to come along on their current multi-day mission.
A weight struck her back with a whirr of locust wings and the force of a freight train, spinning the phone from her hand. Before Bobbi could even register what was happening her neck and waist were encircled with something like the arms of an octopus to hold her firm. A chitinous jaw pressed against her ear, and hissed.
"I take you for the Empress, mammal."
Her phone hit the dirt. Her vision tunneled. Something stabbed her in the side —
— and then, nothing. Only the sound of air displaced by something incredibly fast and incredibly angry.
In the next instant, the hostile creature was no longer whole. Where its chest had been was now a gaping aperture, punched clean through with surgical violence, leaving a grotesque lattice of shattered carapace through which framed Namor like a portrait in ruin. He did not look pleased. In one of the Atlantean's hands, something pulsed — a heart, probably. Or an approximation of one.
He let it drop with a sound that was more wet than solid.
"I had hoped for at least a monologue if there were hostiles," Namor said, brushing a fleck of ichor from his wrist. "Or an ultimatum. Some declaration of righteous conquest. Not . . ." He glanced at Bobbi. "Poor aim."
"P-poor . . . wh-what?" Bobbi grunted, staggering to one side before barely catching herself and reaching out for Namor with one hand while clutching the one that'd been stabbed with her other. "The fuck was that?" she managed to hiss after another shaky intake of breath. Her vision was blurry as she squinted at Namor's hand and whatever substance was on it, then down at the ploppy mess on the ground.
Namor caught her hand without ceremony, steadying, though his attention never wavered from the broken thing at their feet.
"There are creatures in the abyss," he said, voice low, "that mimic the faces of gods to lure the unwary. Shapes without spirit. This one moved like a drone – a soldier only set on the kill. But, why . . . you." It wasn't exactly a question.
The ruin of chitin and ichor twitched. A wet, splitting sound broke the stillness as the jagged aperture of its chest folded inward like reverse footage of a flower blooming.
Namor's mouth drew into a sharper line. He stepped forward, placing himself like a shield between the corpse and Bobbi, as the torn exoskeleton knit itself back into the shape of the Admiral Samedar, bones and armor flowing into feathers with unnatural fluidity.
"Ah," he amended, "so they wear masks. Better."
Clutching Namor's hand far tighter than she'd ever admit to later on, Bobbi shuffled in place, still clutching her injured side as she stared down at the transformed corpse on the ground below them. "M-mask . . . yeah, I see what you mean," she said, in her dazed state finally realizing it wasn't an actual mask but a disguise . . . which, well, was also literal if you thought about it, but that was the thing; it was hard for her to think, to do anything in the moment.
". . . the fuck did it do to me?" she asked, afraid to remove her hand from her wound to actually discover the answer to her own question.
Namor did not answer immediately. The Atlantean crouched as much as he could to examine her wound while still providing support — his free hand hovered just short of the torn fabric, but not close enough to touch. His scrutiny, meanwhile, was not drawn to the wound itself, but the shape of it.
"A probing strike," he murmured, half to himself. "Not to kill. Intentional. A mark."
Then his gaze found her's again.
"You will live."
These were not words of comfort, but instead command. He stood.
"Call your X-Men. Time to justify the trust We have placed in them."
Bobbi took a deep breath and forced herself to become calm – well, calmer, at least – before activating her comms to update everyone else on what had just transpired.
"This is Mockingbird, Submariner and I have been attacked, all hands be on guard," she said, wincing at the pang of pain in her penetrated side. There was what might have been an indignant scoff in the background. "Everyone report in with your status, over."
"Emplate here," came the immediate response over the comms, "Wildchild and Bruiser are with me. All's under control, but we . . . ah, perhaps you should say your thing first. Attacked?"
"Affirmative," she grunted. "Stabbed, if you want to get specific, by some kind of insectoid or . . . fuck, I don't know," Bobbi admitted, the pain forcing a hissed intake from her and letting her usual professional mask slip just a notch or two. "Capable of flight and fast moving, so be on alert."
"Ah?" Marius glanced at the mass of gore now smeared across the floor of the Blackbird. "Well, I was having what I thought to be some sort of allergic reaction to an insect bite incurred during last night's camp until something tried to climb out of Kyle's side. No worries, we got it out. I suspect healing factors don't quite agree with them." He paused. "You . . . don't have one of those, do you?"
"Not like that, no," she confirmed. "Better than the average bear, but not that enhanced. Hopefully that'll be enough though," Bobbi added. "Glad to hear you got it out though, I'm very interested in achieving that result for myself, if you have any advice to impart."
Marius thought of Kyle. "Ah . . . none I would actually recommend."
"Hawkeye and Daredevil on the bridge," Clint said, voice even but obviously strained as shots could be heard around him through the comm. "Currently under attack. Daredevil's . . . got a gun. He accidentally shot me a little bit. I'm fine. I'm running out of quarters and other things to throw. Ship's AI's back on. That seemed to trigger the crew we were working with to turn into . . . shit – hang on – " Something large crashed in the background. "Shoot the other way, bro!" It took several long moments of obvious fighting before he was able to return to giving their sitrep. "Turned into bugs. Can confirm very fast. AI says hi. Real crew's in cryogenic sleep."
"Cryogenic sleep?" Bobbi repeated, her mind snapping back to the earlier inspection her and Kyle did on board the ship. "I know where that is," she spat out, picturing the door with the puzzling English word CRYO in bold letters on it. "We need to get back there, stat. We'll send you back up while the rest of us go back to the ship and find out what the hell's going on here."
For once, the Australian's response was clipped and professional.
"Acknowledged, Mockingbird. On our way."
"Oh, and whoever comes to the bridge, be advised – gravity is fucked. It's like walking through a swimming pool," Clint tossed in before refocusing on throwing tools at the bug things.