“Could you imagine if instead of trying to make us extinct, someone put all that effort into endangering the bloody insects?” Emma spat, pausing to flatten a buzzing thing that became a gelatinous mess upon her arm.
Ororo kept trekking through the steamy jungle, wiping the sweat from her forehead before pushing a branch out of the way. “They’ve probably just never seen blood as blue as yours.”
“Har har. How much longer are these savages going to march for? How can they possibly give a damn about some bloody bastards this far away from them?”
“We’ll get there tonight, as I told you,” Ororo said, trying to keep the testiness out of her voice. Much as it pained her to admit it, she could well understand why Emma was being so… Emma.
She looked up at the small veins of sky that showed through the green canopy that was otherwise thick as a rockface. One that’d been largely mined out of its cerulean blue.
“And don’t speak so loudly,” she warned Emma. “The natives have picked up the odd bits of English over the years.”
“I shouldn’t wonder, with every ruddy superhero worth his salt summering here at least once. I think even Luke Cage has been here. So how we got stuck together, I’ll never know.”
“Is that thankfulness I detect?”
Emma snapped off a laugh. “Hardly! No offense, dearie, but if my lovely friend Tony were here, he’d have a working suit and a flask of something drinkable.”
“I don’t think that suit would do you much good. I know the man fancies himself a knight, but somehow I doubt chivalry would extend that far.”
“I’ve gotten into more interesting pants,” Emma said offhandedly.
“Does it pain you that your discovery of a secondary mutation coincided with your attraction to Scott?”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “An unusually penetrating question, Ororo. Whatever brought it on?”
“I only ask because I imagine you missed out on some fun, turning into diamond. You and Piotr could’ve made quite a couple. A shining example of mutant love.”
Emma made a sort of polite version of a snort. “We’d never work out. He’s a Communist, I’m a capitalist. I don’t approve of starving unless I’m a Size 3.”
“I hope you’re a Size 3 at the moment,” Ororo stated.
“Why? Because I might want to do without eating some cannibal hors d'oeuvres?”
“Well, yes,” Ororo admitted.
“As long as it’s medium rare, I’d even eat your cooking, Ororo my love.”
Emma looked ahead of them. There were thirty-five natives with them, only some visible enough for Emma to keep track of them. It made her miss her telepathy. The only thing worse than being aware of the cannibals all about her was not knowing whether they were there or not.
She’d had to sit through several ‘culturally enriching’ rituals the first night of their journey. In preparation for combat, Ororo said. There’d been loud shouting and some dancing that made twerking look dignified. Each night an effigy of the enemy was set up and then dashed to pieces. She would’ve turned in early, only they managed to make such a rachet. Say what you will about man’s universal inhumanity to man, but at least some people broke the candy out of a pinata and left it at that.
Emma had had it up to here with aborigines, no matter what their tribe. Them and their bowlcuts. What a way to ruin the muscles they did have. Yes, some of the younger warriors had fine bodies, but still they held no appeal to her. The nightly voodoo, the face painting, the chewing of things she would never pick up much less put in her mouth.
Emma could usually get a bit of fun out of being threatened; she had a nice vibrator which looked remarkably like a Sentinel’s head. But as much as she was intimidated by their chiseled, charcoal bodies and ten-foot spears, they were just too damn earthy for her tastes. They picked lice from each other and blew smoke into each other’s mouths through a long pipe.
Ororo said she’d tried it. Probably an attempt to snooker Emma into experimenting herself. No thank you. Much as Emma’s exterior might be banged up on this journey, she’d be keeping her interior as pristine as possible.
The native girls had their points, Emma could admit. Even without bras, they’d managed some splendid cleavage. She glanced down at her own chassis as the march continued, taking some satisfaction in the jiggle of her well-formed breasts. She was no teenager, but there was a damned good reason she returned to the same plastic surgeon for every scratch, break, or cloning. Maybe it was time she got the Cuckoos their own implants, finally. Their birthday was coming up and she’d hate to think of them not being able to attract a mate better than one of Wolverine’s countless spawn. That man had contributed more to the mansion at this point than the contractor.
Emma opened her mouth and inhaled deeply, feeling the satisfying stretch of her mammaries. She felt the sweat running, in two streaks, over her hills to meet in the middle and move in a rapid river down her cleavage. Down to her panties, wetting them, making them cling to her mons, making every step a little tingle. As if Emma’s vast intellect, unable to sample the deep waters of others’ surface thoughts, now made her aware of how her womanhood tingled with blood, flushed with it, everything in the proper condition for what she should be doing, back at the mansion, with Scott. After she bathed. While she bathed. While she teased Scott to prove she’d wasted money on the bulletproof shower door by seeing if he could fuck her through the glass.
Emma tried turning each thigh slightly inward as she stepped forward, wanting to rub her little itch without being noticed. This bloody heat--! How long could she put up with it? And the insects? Why, out of all the bloody marvels the X-gene could be responsible for, couldn’t one of them be making some sort of natural bug repellant?
Emma tried to dampen her own complaining, knowing all she’d accomplish would be putting herself in a bad mood, even if she bloody well deserved to be in one. She thought of Scott instead. Cooing over her, babying her, making up to her for what a shamefully bad lover he’d been, taking so long to rescue her. Even if he hadn’t known she was in danger, that was still no reason for him to be able to go without her for such a length of time. Perhaps if he were to show up in the X-Jet with flowers and chocolates, wanting to take advantage of the setting for a romantic getaway, like that one time at the hot springs.
She’d insist he take her immediately back to somewhere with air conditioning, of course, but she would reward his initiative with a suck job that wouldn’t end until his balls were the size of marbles. And dash it all if Ororo saw. She’d flown along the Blackbird enough times to know Emma’s version of co-piloting.
Lost in her fantasy, Emma’s mind grew numb. She lost track of time, of everything but one foot in front of the other and making sure she didn’t lose sight of the last Indian in line. She smelt Ororo beside her, but put her out of mind. Emma’d grown close enough to the woman. She didn’t need to fantasize about her too. She wanted her mental Scott all to herself. And maybe Rogue. That woman always looked so good in her slutty Savage Land fits.
Then dusk was on them. It was dark as ever, but this wasn’t the trees crowding overhead as usual, it was the actual sunset. The natives sensed it somehow. They stopped to eat and Emma imagined how Scott would pet her hair and let her lay her head in his lap, feeding her grapes while he commiserated over what a mess her diet had become, through no fault of her own.
A native came dashing into camp to jabber at Ororo. As the weather witch relayed, they expected to attack by night. An ambush and then a swift, speedy retreat. As long as it was over with, Emma said—not that Ororo translated for her.
The Indians conducted a quick ritual that Emma couldn’t tell from any of the others, then they set off in their blustering warrior fashion. But as they came up on the reason for all this hoopla, their bravado fell away. A quiet tension took them over, body and soul. Emma recognized it. Warriors going into battle were alike the world over. There was no pretending they were invincible this close to death.
They moved in. Emma didn’t know what to think. At least the night air was cool. Now they came to a large clearing, the only approach to the enemy’s village. The group split into two wings, pincers moving to close on the enemy. They stopped at the very edge of the trees, hunching down to make last-minute whispers in the face of the situation’s seriousness. Emma could recognize morale collapsing. She’d have ordered her Hellions full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes, but now mortality was setting in. Now fear was getting to call their bluff.