Chapter 13
The Blackbird's landing gear hissed as it kissed the jungle floor, its engines winding down into a low growl before falling silent. A hush lingered in the air, heavy, almost unnatural. The new team filed out into the oppressive heat of Krakoa, boots sinking into soft earth.
Storm swept her white hair back, nostrils flaring as if the wind itself whispered secrets to her. Colossus loomed behind her, steel skin gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight. Nightcrawler crouched low, tail twitching nervously, yellow eyes darting through the thick canopy.
It was Wolverine who muttered first, cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Somethin's off, bub. I can smell it."
Sunfire crossed his arms, impatience dripping from his voice.
"Everything here stinks. We waste time."
But then Banshee spoke, sharp and uneasy.
"Hold up—where's the bloody jet?"
They all turned. The clearing was empty. The Blackbird was gone. No sound of engines, no trail of disturbed earth—just swallowed whole by the jungle.
And before they could trade more words, Nightcrawler froze, one clawed finger pointing through the foliage.
"Zat… was not here before."
A temple. Black stone, jagged and ancient, its surface crawling with vines. It loomed where the sky had shown nothing just moments ago.
Cyclops adjusted his visor, voice hard.
"Searching anywhere is searching. Searching the temple is also searching. Move."
The order was met with silence, but no one argued. They fell in line, boots crunching damp leaves.
Halfway there, the earth writhed. Vines exploded from the soil, slick and alive, snapping like whips. One coiled for Storm's throat but was seared midair by a blast of Sunfire's flames. Another lashed Colossus, only to splinter uselessly against his metal chest. Wolverine slashed through a bundle of them with a feral growl, claws flashing silver in the dim light.
In seconds, the vines lay shredded, smoking, retreating back into the earth.
"Cute trick," Logan muttered, shaking off sap from his claws. "Let's see what daddy vine's hidin' in there."
The temple's mouth loomed before them: a massive stone door, veined with roots like arteries. Cyclops turned, visor glowing faint red.
"Storm, Sunfire, Colossus—on me. We bring it down."
They didn't hesitate. Storm called lightning, her hands glowing with celestial fury. Sunfire's flames roared, eating at the vines. Colossus slammed his fists into the stone, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Cyclops unleashed a full optic blast, the crimson beam tearing the rest apart.
The door exploded inward, stone and dust flooding the air.
What lay beyond stopped them cold.
A vast, dark hall stretched into blackness, the walls pulsating faintly as though the temple itself were breathing. From the ceiling, thick vines dangled—and from those vines hung bodies.
The old X-Men. Jean Grey, Iceman, Angel, Havok, Polaris—bound tight, vines sunk into their flesh, glowing faintly as if draining the very essence of their powers. Faces slack, eyes closed, their energy siphoned away.
Storm whispered, almost reverent.
"Goddess protect us…"
For once, even Wolverine was silent. His fists clenched, claws trembling with the urge to cut.
The new team stepped forward into the suffocating dark, the smell of decay thick around them—hearts pounding at the sight of their fallen predecessors.