CHAPTER 126 – THE SKY TURNS AGAINST US
The jet hummed steady above the clouds, a silver bird cutting through the blue. Inside, the X-Men sat scattered in their seats. Cyclops was up front, visor glinting, studying the map with the intensity of a man who never truly rested. Logan leaned back, boots up on the seat in front of him, cigar clamped between his teeth, smoke curling lazy. Banshee was half-dozing, muttering something in Gaelic, while Nightcrawler perched upside down from the luggage rack like a gargoyle, tail twitching with amusement.
Then it hit.
The plane lurched hard enough to rattle teeth. Alarms shrieked. The sky outside went from bright to blind white in seconds.
"Mein Gott!" Nightcrawler yelped, flipping down to his seat. "That was no pocket of turbulence!"
Storm's eyes narrowed. She could feel it—feel the pull of the wind, the unnatural twist in the clouds. Her voice was tight. "This storm… it is no accident. Someone bends the skies against us."
Cyclops snapped, calm but clipped. "If you can stop it—"
"I cannot!" Ororo's hands dug into the armrests, frustration boiling. "The fuselage is weak. If I unleash my full strength, this fragile craft will tear itself apart!"
The jet shook again, dropping hard enough that Banshee grabbed the arm of his chair. "Jaysus, it's like ridin' a buckin' horse! Can't you sing this thing steady, Scott?!"
Logan snorted smoke through his nose. "If he starts singin', Irish, we'll all be prayin' for a quick death."
Thunderbird growled from the back, bracing himself against the wall. "Enough jokes. Something's driving us off course."
And he was right. Each time they tried to change heading, the storm bent with them, herding them like cattle.
Minutes dragged into hours. Finally, the tower in their ear: "This flight, divert immediately. Land at Calgary, runway seven."
Cyclops didn't like it. His jaw clenched. "Runway seven it is. Everyone brace."
The landing gear kissed the tarmac rough, skidding through sleet. Relief was short-lived.
A shadow loomed.
With a roar, something massive ripped from the snowstorm—fur, fangs, muscles like mountains. A hand the size of a small car clamped under the plane's belly.
Sasquatch.
The beast laughed, deep and wild, and heaved. Metal screamed. The entire jet was torn off its wheels and flung like a child's toy into a warehouse.
"OUT! NOW!" Cyclops barked. The X-Men were already moving, instincts sharp. Colossus rolled with Misty Knight and Colleen Wing under each arm like they weighed nothing. Nightcrawler blinked in and out, grabbing pilots one at a time. Banshee screamed holes in the fuselage so they could dive through.
They hit the icy ground, hearts pounding, just as the smoke cleared.
Six figures stood in formation. A man in red-and-white armor at the center, visor gleaming with authority. To his left, Sasquatch cracked his knuckles, grin wide. To his right, a tall, lean figure with a staff—Shaman, robes whipping in the gale. Behind them, twins glimmering with light and speed—Aurora and Northstar. Snowbird hovered above, her white wings catching the blizzard she herself had called.
The armored man stepped forward, voice carrying in the storm.
"Logan. You should've stayed where you belonged. With us. Surrender now… or your team suffers."
Logan stepped out of the wreckage, cigar still in his mouth, claws whispering snikt into the air. His lip curled in that feral grin.
"Vindicator. Should've guessed you'd still be sniffin' after me. Hate to break it to ya—but I ain't in the mood to be anyone's dog."
The storm raged, the two teams squared off, and Cyclops raised his hand.
"X-Men. Hold formation. This just became a war."