Holding the Line

The lawn outside the Xavier Mansion was littered with churned-up grass and shattered earth, the aftermath of the first few salvos. Trees leaned precariously from the shockwaves, their leaves drifting down like green snow. The air thrummed with kinetic tension—sizzling, wild, and angry.

Hank McCoy, bare-footed, his muscular frame rippling under a torn shirt, crouched low with hands splayed in the dirt. Beside him, Warren Worthington hovered a few feet above the ground, wings beating with heavy sweeps, displacing air with each motion. Their breathing was heavy, but measured. They were alive.

For now.

Scrambler was the first to charge. Reckless, grinning, his fingertips glowing with the promise of stolen power. "C'mon, McCoy! Let me give that monkey brain of yours a factory reset!"

Hank snarled and pivoted sideways, narrowly avoiding the swipe. He answered with a whipcrack kick to Scrambler's ribs that sent the man flying backward—right into Blockbuster's broad, hulking frame. The bigger mutant barely flinched, but Scrambler crumpled at his feet.

"You're welcome," Hank muttered, straightening.

"Eyes up, Beast!" Warren shouted from above.

A sharp crack of air, and Harpoon hurled a glowing spear of energy. It sliced through the air like a comet.

Hank somersaulted backward as the energy spear punched into the ground where he'd stood. It detonated in a shockwave of light, a crater blooming in its wake.

Above, Warren twisted midair, a gold-and-white streak. He dove, tucked his wings, and barreled toward Prism, who stood near the mansion steps, glimmering like a walking gemstone. Prism raised a crystalline arm to block the impact—

—and Warren smashed through it.

Shards exploded across the battlefield like flying razors. Prism shrieked, light refracting madly across the grass, his fractured form struggling to reform. Warren winced mid-flight, blood streaming from a dozen minor cuts along his arms and cheeks. His wings fluttered erratically, catching the wind.

He landed hard.

Then came Tombstone.

Lumbering, silent, and grinning with predatory calm. The pale-skinned brute walked with confidence, his feet leaving dents in the soil. The longer the battle raged, the more he absorbed—the stronger he became. Every hit, every shockwave, every impact added to the weight behind his fists.

"Angel-boy," he rasped, voice like sandpaper on steel, "You're next."

Warren didn't wait.

He launched himself forward, wings snapping once, and drove a foot straight into Tombstone's chest. It connected with a dull thud—barely moving him.

Tombstone smirked.

He caught Warren's leg mid-air and slammed him bodily into the earth. The impact rippled outward like a stone dropped into water. Warren gasped in pain, rolling aside just before Tombstone's follow-up punch cratered the lawn beside him.

"Warren!" Hank roared, vaulting off a cracked tree stump like a spring-loaded cannon.

He crashed into Tombstone's side, both fists hammering into the man's ribs. The kinetic force barely fazed the brute—but it was enough to get him to stumble.

Scrambler was back on his feet.

"Yo! Hold the monkey, I got wings!" he barked, lunging for Warren again.

Hank moved to intercept, but Blockbuster surged in, shoulder-checking him with the force of a train. Hank flew back, somersaulting midair before landing in a heap, coughing.

Above, Harpoon took aim once more.

Warren saw the glint, the charge building.

He leapt, wings straining—and then one of Harpoon's energy javelins lanced through the sky and clipped the edge of Warren's wing. Light exploded. He screamed.

He spiraled.

Crashing into the ground in a tumble of feathers and earth.

"Got him!" Harpoon grinned.

"Get OFF HIM!" Hank roared, launching into Blockbuster, smashing a double-fist blow across the juggernaut's jaw. It rocked the brute, even made him take a step back—but not before Tombstone grabbed Hank from behind in a crushing bear hug.

Hank growled and kicked out wildly, his heels smashing into Prism's shattered form as the crystalline mutant tried to reform nearby, sending pieces of him clattering apart again.

"You guys mind giving each other some space?" Scrambler barked as Harpoon nearly skewered him with a missed throw. "I'm trying not to die here!"

"Then get outta the way!" Harpoon snapped back.

"I will turn you all into statues if you don't shut up!" Prism hissed, still flickering.

Tombstone laughed—deep, guttural, and cruel.

"They're falling apart," Warren said quietly through bloodied lips as he stood again, his wing trembling and scorched. "We're losing. But so are they."

Hank, held tight by Tombstone, turned his head slightly. "Plan?"

Warren flapped hard—just enough to kick dust and debris into the air. Enough to buy a heartbeat of obscurity.

Then he dove low and fast, slipping beneath Scrambler's arms, dragging him skyward by the collar.

"LET GO—LET—"

Warren spun and released. Scrambler flew like a ragdoll, crashed into Prism mid-reformation, and both collapsed in a heap of light and limbs.

"Two down," Warren rasped, landing with a stumble.

Tombstone tossed Hank aside like a sack of bricks. "Two ain't enough."

He stomped forward, cracked his knuckles, and absorbed the vibrations from Blockbuster slamming into the side of the mansion. His skin shimmered with raw energy.

"Angel. Beast. You bleed. We don't."

"Speak for yourself," Blockbuster snarled, brushing rubble off his shoulder. "This suit cost me twelve grand."

Harpoon raised his last glowing spear, crackling like lightning.

Hank struggled to his feet. "We can't beat them. Not here."

Warren's wings were torn. Hank's body ached. The Marauders advanced—scarred but smiling.

Still, the two X-Men stood tall, breathing hard but unbowed.

Warren exhaled. "Then we just hold the line."

The wind shifted.

They braced.

They charged.

Not because they believed they could win—but because standing still meant dying.

Hank let out a ragged battle cry as he slammed into Blockbuster again. His fist cracked against the larger mutant's temple, drawing a snarl. But Blockbuster returned the blow with a knee to Hank's gut that lifted him off the ground. Hank flew backward and landed hard, gasping.

Warren flared his wings and swept upward again, one mangled feathered limb refusing to move cleanly. He gritted his teeth and angled into a high arc, then dove at Harpoon, hoping to take him out before another spear could be thrown.

Too late.

Harpoon spun, faster than Warren anticipated, and launched another glowing javelin straight into the air. Warren twisted mid-dive—the spear grazed his wing, cutting a fiery line through muscle. He cried out, faltered—

And Harpoon lunged forward, driving a boot into Warren's ribs mid-fall.

Warren hit the ground in a heap, his wing twisted beneath him at an ugly angle.

"I thought angels were supposed to fall with grace," Harpoon jeered.

Elsewhere, Hank rolled to his feet, crouched low like a predator. Tombstone and Blockbuster flanked him now. The ground trembled under their steps.

"Gentlemen," Hank muttered, wiping blood from his jaw. "I hate to be rude, but could we call this an intermission?"

Blockbuster answered with a roar and a fist like a sledgehammer. Hank ducked under it and countered with a spinning backhand—his knuckles cracked against Tombstone's cheek. The pale brute barely flinched, grabbing Hank's wrist mid-spin and slamming him to the ground.

CRACK.

Pain exploded in Hank's back as Tombstone's elbow drove down into his spine. He rolled with the impact, kicked off Tombstone's knee, and staggered upright, swaying, chest heaving.

Then a glittering light flared at the edge of the battlefield.

"Aw, hell," Hank muttered.

Prism was back—reformed, whole, and glowing with refracted light like a walking kaleidoscope of hate. Beside him stood Scrambler, bloodied but grinning, a jagged tooth missing from his smirk.

"You boys miss us?" Scrambler sneered, cracking his knuckles. "Because we sure missed you."

Prism didn't speak. He fired.

A searing beam of refracted energy lanced toward Warren. The winged mutant barely managed to throw himself sideways, the blast scorching the lawn where he had lain seconds earlier.

Scrambler lunged, arms outstretched, but Hank intercepted him again—this time slower, wearier. They grappled, hands locked. Scrambler's fingers grazed Hank's skin, and suddenly the Beast's body spasmed violently, his coordination collapsing.

"Gotcha!" Scrambler cackled, shoving Hank backward into the waiting fist of Blockbuster.

The punch was thunder.

Hank flew back, skidding across the lawn, coughing blood.

Warren stumbled toward him, one arm clutching his side. "Hank—!"

"Stay back!" Hank barked, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Tombstone stepped forward, Prism behind him, blocking escape. Harpoon stood off to the side, charging another spear lazily. Blockbuster cracked his neck. Scrambler danced on the balls of his feet like a child waiting for his turn in a game.

Warren fell to one knee beside Hank, blood streaking his temple, his wings hanging limp behind him. Hank was down, one eye swelling shut, ribs visibly broken, hand trembling as he tried to push himself up again.

They were surrounded.

Overpowered.

Outnumbered.

Beaten.

But not broken.

Warren met Hank's eye. "We still breathing?"

"Barely."

"Good." Warren tried to smile. "Let's make them work for the finish."

Harpoon raised his final spear. "Any last words, heroes?"

Warren looked up, face bloodied, teeth red, but eyes defiant. "Yeah. You're all standing way too close together."

The Marauders flinched slightly, their cohesion breaking for a heartbeat.

But no salvation came.

No backup.

No cavalry.

Only the wind.

The two X-Men on their knees, backs to one another, ready to fight to the last breath.

Then it happened.

A surge of burning energy ripped through the air.

It struck Prism directly in the chest. The mutant let out a guttural cry as the blast reflected off his crystalline body, bouncing toward Harpoon. The impact drove Harpoon back, his body slamming against the broken pavement. He groaned, his hands trembling as he pushed himself up—but he was slower this time.

Both Warren and Hank looked toward the source of the blast.

Alex stood at the mansion's ruined entrance, his hands glowing with residual energy. His expression was fierce, determined, a mixture of fear and adrenaline coursing through him. "You guys looked like you needed some help," Alex said, forcing confidence into his voice.

Before the Marauders could react, a thick fog rolled in, creeping across the battlefield like a living entity. The sudden blanket of mist distorted their vision, wrapping around them like a ghostly shroud.

Blockbuster snarled. "What the hell—?!"

Before he could react, Warren and Hank were pulled from danger.

Amelia materialized, standing protectively in front of Alex, Warren, and Hank. Her lower body remained ethereal, tendrils of mist curling and twisting around her form.

Her eyes were sharp and unwavering.

Blockbuster, glaring through the haze, clenched his fists.

"Great," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Two more annoyances just showed up."