Chapter 32 - Through the Rock
The dust of the crash still clung to their uniforms. Hair matted with sweat, faces lit by the moon, the X-Men stood before the mountain like pilgrims before an altar. But there was no worship here only war.
Count Nefaria's fortress loomed above them, silent as a tomb, bristling with hidden guns and unseen eyes. Somewhere inside, missiles sat waiting to scream across the skies, and the world's doomsday clock ticked down with every heartbeat.
Cyclops planted his boots in the dirt. His visor glowed faintly, a caged sun waiting to scorch. His voice cracked the silence:
"Colossus. You're up."
The young Russian exhaled once, slow and deliberate, before letting the steel take him. His skin shimmered, then rippled, hardening until every inch of him gleamed like a walking statue hammered from iron.
SKRRAAK- his body finished the transformation, joints locking with metallic finality.
He stepped forward, colossal fists flexing. The wall of the mountain wasn't an obstacle; it was an invitation.
"Bozhe moi," Piotr muttered under his breath, voice deep as church bells. "This mountain will yield."
Then he drove his fist into the rock.
The world shook. Stone cracked like gunfire.
Shards spat outward, grazing Logan's cheek -not that he flinched. Colossus slammed again, again, his rhythm steady as a war drum. Each blow dug deeper until the earth Itself began to groan in protest.
Finally, with a thunderous roar, the mountain gave. An opening yawned before them, jagged and raw, leading into the black heart of Valhalla Base.
"Move," Cyclops ordered, but his throat was tight. He could hear the tick-tick-tick of the Doomsmith program in his imagination, a drumbeat of annihilation.
The X-Men slipped Inside in pairs:
Nightcrawler, vanishing in a puff of brimstone and reappearing farther down the cavern, scouting the shadows.
Storm, her white eyes glowing faintly, whispering wind into the tunnels to sniff out traps.
Banshee, ears tuned sharp for the hum of machines.
Wolverine, claws already out, muttering, "Gotta be rats down here somewhere..."
Cyclops followed last, because of course he did. Always last. Always the shepherd.
The air inside was stale, acrid - the stink of
old stone and newer metal. Lights flickered like dying stars, powered by some hidden
generator. Every step echoed, reminding them they were intruders in a tomb with a mad god waiting inside.
Nightcrawler reappeared with a snap of sulfur. His voice was low, but urgent: "Mein freunds... zis place is crawling.
Cameras. Guns. Ani-Men guarding ze halls."
Logan's lip curled back, feral grin flashing.
"Good. Means we don't gotta go lookin'."
Cyclops shot him a look that could cut steel. "We're not here to brawl. We're here to shut Nefaria down before he turns the world into ashes."
Logan shrugged, claws gleaming in the dark. "Bub, sometimes those two things are the same."
The First Signs of Madness
As if summoned by the thought, a voice rippled through hidden speakers, booming through the tunnels:
"Ahhh, my guests. Charles Xavler sends me his misfit army. How delicious. Do you know what I hold in my hand? Entire nations.
Futures. The delicate threads of tomorrow. And I will cut them unless the world kneels."
Nefaria's laughter was not the cackle of a
lunatic. It was worse cold, calculated, the laughter of a man utterly convinced he deserved dominion.
Storm shivered, though the air around her was already rising with static. "He is drunk on his own grandeur..."
"No," Cyclops corrected, his voice low and tight. "He's sober. That's what makes him dangerous."
They pressed deeper, hearts pounding,
weapons ready, Somewhere ahead, five Ani-Men waited like wolves. Somewhere beyond them, Nelaria sat on his stolen throne with his finger over Armageddon's trigger.
And with each step, Logan's claws flexed like tuning forks.
Soon.