Lost in the Snow

Don't smash a jar when you can just unscrew the lid.

The storm didn't brew darkly in the distant horizon, looming at a comfortable enough distance for the X-men to outrun its fury. Instead, it bursts to life amidst the battlefield, engulfing mutants and Hydra agents alike within a matter of seconds. From the way the edges of the grey clouds are smooth and curved inwards the storm is manmade, constructed by some kind of high-tech weather machine Hank guesses, uncertified by the CSA clearly. With snow blinding them and bullets ricocheting in all directions they're forced to retreat back onto the blackbird. When Jean arrives, shedding globs of snow from her amber hair as she moves, Bobby and Hank are already strapped in, the latter currently powering up the jet, green lights illuminating them.

Angel is the last to arrive, stumbling on moments after Jean, one wing bunched up to his side. Feathers have been ripped out, leaving a shallow gash visible in their wake. As blood fell to the jet's pseudo plastic, never metal, decking, from Angel's mouth words fall faster. So fast Jean is forced to pluck the thoughts from his head to understand. Diving through his mind is difficult, like swimming in a tsunami, panic suffocating her like water would. Then without warning an image is thrust at her, the intensity of it making her wince, Scott facing down a line of Hydra soldiers. The imagery is from a bird's eye view, Angel must have been hovering above in the moment, close enough to see through the thick snow. Scott is weaving in and around them with grace before they're gone, left crumbled in the snow by a silver streak. Stomach sinking Jean watches the streak return in the form of a human, his features achingly familiar although she can't pin down why, before he runs at Scott, the X-man's glasses flying off.

Pain interrupts the memory, as images filter past Jean's eyes, land and sky as she relives Warren's unexpected descent, the agony she feels from a bullet skimming a phantom wing that's never belonged to her is consuming, her teeth grind together as she pulls herself out of Warren's head.

When she returns to the room, horror adorns each of their faces, Warren having repeated himself whilst she was lost in his head. Their leader not here Jean takes charge, ''Warren, Hank will attend to your wing whilst I go get Scott.''

Any disputes are cut off by the jet tilting violently, sending Warren crashing to the floor whilst Jean's skull is smacked off the back of her seat. White spots dance in her vision she looks up to the window, tendrils of crimson are creeping into view, wrapping the plane in its embrace. The storm is weaker now, the downpour of snow has thinned enough to see the figure standing before them. A young woman, eyes and hands glowing scarlet, fingers moving and her mouth muttering silent words.

''We need to move. Now.'' Without waiting for affirmation Hank's hands are gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, the engine's loud in their ears as it powers up.

''Scott's still out there.''

''Jean, she is going to tear up this jet if we don't go right now.'' The jet groaning cuts off her reply, screws and bolts loosening and panels starting to cave in. The jet has begun to hover, the woman now out of view. Pulling the accelerator Hank winces as the jet swings north, its tail high whilst its nose sinks to the floor.

''Hasn't Scott ever taught you how to fly this thing?'' Bobby asks.

''The right thruster is damaged. We don't have enough power to get in the air with her holding us down. And the left thruster is sending us tail spinning. Jean, I need you to use your powers to get us out of her reach.''

Reaching out with her telekinesis, Jean quickly meets resistance, her grasp on the ship dissipating as soon as it touches. The young woman's power was telekinetic in nature, similar to Jean's but somehow darker, her gift more primal and cunning. The red tendrils, twisting and turning violently, the body of red contorting like a dying animal, eat away at Jean's power as soon as they come face to face, their owner's grip increasing by the second. The jet still screaming, web-like cracks begin to spiral across the window, threatening to crave in on the group.