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Marvel MK: CH 127 – Mission: Impossible
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 16:38:10 +0000 UTCThe wind on Jotunheim was a blade. It cut through the thick canvas of Odin's war tent, carrying the scent of ice and ancient stone. Outside, Heimdall, the ever-dutiful guardian, stood motionless, a golden statue against the pale, frozen landscape, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Inside, the air was thick with the grim anticipation of battle. Odin sat at the head of a rough-hewn wooden table, his one good eye scanning the faces of his most trusted commanders. Baldur, Njord, Ullr, Vidar, Skadi, Hogun, Sif, Volstagg, and Fandral. All were here. All but one.
"Skadi," Odin's voice was a low rumble, the sound of mountains shifting. "Are your troops ready for deployment?"
Skadi, the fierce goddess of the hunt, bowed her head, her hand resting on the pommel of her blade. "We are ready to vanquish them once and for all, All-Father."
Odin nodded, his mind a whirlwind of strategy and suspicion. This war had been dragged out, yet lately, their advance, their cornering of Laufey's troops, had gone almost too smoothly. It felt wrong. He knew the betrayal of his own realm had bolstered the Jotun ranks, that Laufey's cry for "Ymir's glory" had rallied half the giants to his cause. But this felt like a feint, a trap waiting to be sprung. It didn't matter now. The final battle was upon them.
He sighed, a sound of weary finality. "Alright. We do what we planned. And do not rush in. For all of our family will be saddened by our passing."
The warriors bowed, their faces grim and resolute, and filed out of the tent one by one, their armor clanking softly in the heavy silence. Soon, only Baldur remained.
Odin rubbed his forehead, the weight of his crown, his kingdom, and his fractured family pressing down on him.
Baldur broke the silence, his voice quiet but firm. "Are we not going to talk about brother's betrayal?"
Odin's eye remained closed. "He has never seen you as a brother," he said, his voice laced with a cold, ancient pain. "Never seen me as a father. Never seen us as a fami—"
"He always IS my brother!"
The words, sharp and full of a righteous fire, cut Odin off. The golden boy of Asgard, the prideful son of the All-Father, was lashing out. Baldur stood, his hands clenched at his sides, his usual serene expression now a mask of raw, long-suppressed anger.
He looked at Odin's one eye, his own blazing with conviction. "Never once in his miserable life did he think of you as anything other than his father! But what did you do? You curse his sons to be wolves, just because he lay with a Jotun! Angrboda loved him as much as Loki loved you, and you turned your sight from him! Because of what, exactly?!"
Odin stood, his hand instinctively gripping Gungnir, his spear. "Lower your voice, boy."
"Enough of this!" Baldur shouted, his voice cracking with a grief that was centuries old. "What are you going to do? This battle will be the last, the epic closing of your history, right? So what are you going to do with my brother? Are you going to kill him?"
The question hung in the cold, still air of the tent, heavy and unanswered.
The tension broke as the tent flap was pushed aside. Heimdall stood there, his gaze unwavering. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice a calm, steady anchor in the storm. "The troops are ready."
Odin did not look at his son. He did not answer the question. He simply reached for his helm, placed it on his head, and walked out of the tent, a king going to war, leaving a son to drown in the silence.
…
The North Pole cabin, once a bastion of lonely silence, was now a whirlwind of chaotic, festive energy. Ororo, having taken on the unenviable role of teacher-on-duty, was trying to get the younger X-Men into a neat, orderly line, a task akin to herding super-powered kittens. The teens, meanwhile, stood off to the side, trying to look cool and detached but failing to hide their own curiosity.
Remy LeBeau, ever the smooth observer, leaned against a wooden beam, a playing card dancing between his fingers. He smirked, his gaze flicking from the red-suited man by the fire to Jack. "Hey, Jack," he said, his voice a low, Cajun drawl. "Is that handsome man supposed to be Santa?"
Hermes saw the wicked, glimmering look in Jack's eyes. The monkey was practically vibrating with the urge to brag, to show off his divine connections. Hermes could only sigh internally and play his part. "Well," he said, his voice shifting, becoming deeper, rounder, and full of a practiced jolliness. "Long story short… yes. I am."
With a flourish, his form shimmered and expanded. The lean, beautiful god was gone, replaced by the familiar, rosy-cheeked, white-bearded figure of Santa Claus. He threw his head back and let out a booming, theatrical laugh.
"Ho ho ho!"
The kids were in absolute awe. Their jaws dropped. Tenzin's eyes were as wide as dinner plates.
Suzanne Chan, ever the pragmatist, looked around the cozy room. "This seems to be an old cabin, though," she pointed out. "Not a factory."
Hermes shot a desperate, side-eyed glance at Jack, a silent plea of don't you dare. But Jack's eyes were just glimmering with delighted sparkles. With a final, long-suffering sigh, Hermes turned back to his real form. He chanted something low and ancient, and the floor in the center of the cabin began to glow. A trapdoor, etched with runes that seemed to hum with a life of their own, materialized from the wooden floorboards and swung open.
"Ahh, what a nostalgic thing!" Jack exclaimed. He rushed over and gave the heavy wooden door a big, heartfelt hug.
Hermes looked at the X-Men. "Okay, kids. Inside you go."
The teens were hesitant. "It's really suspicious that we're being led into a trapdoor," Scott said, his arms crossed.
Alex grabbed his brother's shoulder. "Yeah, no shit."
Ororo, ever the responsible one, went down first. A moment later, her voice echoed up from below. "Okay, it's safe!"
The kids, who had been too happy to care about suspicion, immediately scrambled down the ladder. As the last one, Gabriel, was about to descend, he looked back at his older brothers. "Booo! Big brothers are cowards!"
The taunt, combined with the excited cheers from below, was enough. The rest of the teens, rolling their eyes, followed.
The only ones left in the cabin were Hermes and Jack.
"So," Hermes said, his voice returning to its normal, weary tone. "What is your real reason for being here?"
Jack, still hugging the trapdoor, looked up, his expression surprisingly sincere. "I'm genuinely here to accompany you," he said. "You need someone. Not that brooding uncle of yours." He then stood up, puffed out his chest, and did a terrible, dramatic impression of Hades. "The bureaucracy of death is eternal. My paperwork is endless. The living are a nuisance."
The impression was so bad, so utterly ridiculous, that Hermes burst out laughing.
Jack's grin returned, full force. "Let's go," he said, his eyes twinkling with a new, shared purpose. "We need to spread some gifts before the 25th, right?"
Hermes just chuckled and nodded, the weight of his loneliness a little lighter than it had been a moment ago.
…
The tour of the Alfar workshop went as smoothly as a tour led by a divine being with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel could go. The machinery was dormant, a blessing that likely saved the entire North Pole from being accidentally launched into a different dimension. Jack had attempted to "optimize" the toy train assembly line by using his staff as a high-speed conveyor belt, tried to teach the wooden soldiers a "more effective" battle formation (which involved a lot of T-posing), and was only stopped from riding a half-finished rocking horse down the main chimney by a well-timed intervention from Ororo.
Finally, as the last of the chaotic energy settled, Hermes, still in his Santa form, clapped his hands together. "Alright then, kids," he said, his voice full of a forced, festive cheer. "Shall we have dinner?"
He walked over to Jack's side, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, Jack. Can you cook?"
Jack, who was trying to see if a snow globe could be used as a contact lens, looked up and shook his head. Then, a brilliant, terrible idea lit up his golden eyes.
"Hermes," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "What do you think of bringing a special kind of food?"
"What kind?" Hermes asked, already regretting it.
"The godly kind." Jack's smile was pure, unhinged mischief.
Hermes's jolly facade faltered. "You can't cook. I can't cook. So what do you want me to do?"
"I heard Hestia always prepares a large banquet, even if she eats alone," Jack said, his eyes gleaming. "That's just wasteful! We're not stealing; we're preventing food waste. It's an act of divine environmentalism."
"No. No, no, no," Hermes said, his voice firm. "Absolutely not. My Aunt Hestia is the kindest, gentlest soul on Olympus. We are not stealing from her. I draw the line at traumatizing the one decent person in my entire family." He paused, a wicked glint in his own eyes. "Can we, like, steal from my brothers instead?"
Jack's face, which had been set on a noble quest of culinary redistribution, instantly turned uninterested. "Ughh, boring."
"I will lead you to one of Dionysus's private wine collections," Hermes offered, the bait perfectly cast.
Jack's expression shifted instantly, his disinterest replaced by a mischievous, greedy glee. "Deal," he said, shaking Hermes's hand with a vigor that was slightly alarming. "Let's bring food from your brothers and sisters for the feast we will be having!"
"We?" Hermes asked, pulling his hand back. "Can you even steal something? No offense, but I don't think you can be sneaky."
"Watch this," Jack said with a grin.
And then, he was gone.
Not invisible. Not a blur. Just… gone. Hermes froze. He extended his divine senses, searching for a ripple in the air, a scent, a sound, a flicker of energy. There was nothing. It was as if Jack Hou had been completely and utterly erased from existence.
"What the hell…?" Hermes muttered. "I swear, all my senses can't even sense you."
Jack reappeared directly behind him, his voice a smug whisper in his ear. "Kekekekeke. What do you think I've been doing since the battle in Japan? I've been honing my skills, baby. My Bodily Concealment has evolved. It's now good enough to vanish even in front of a godly being like you."
Hermes spun around, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock, which quickly morphed into a slow, appreciative grin. He extended a hand.
"Let's do this heist."
Jack didn't shake his hand. He grabbed Hermes's arm, his eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand bad ideas.
"Mission: Impossible theme, here we come."
…
The living room of the Xavier Mansion was quiet, a rare and welcome peace in a house that had seen too much chaos. Outside, a gentle snow was falling, blanketing the grounds in a pristine white. Inside, a fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow on Logan and John Proudstar, who sat in comfortable armchairs, mugs of hot cocoa cradled in their hands.
"Logan," John said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Why did you choose paper?"
…
(Flashback – Earlier)
"I must insist that at least one teacher accompanies the children," Professor Xavier had said, his voice firm but gentle.
Jack, who was in the middle of trying to teach Tenzin how to do a kickflip on a Zephyr cloud, had just shrugged. "Fine by me, Baldie. But I'm only taking one. The sleigh's getting crowded."
And so, to settle the matter, the four available teachers had gathered in the foyer for the most ancient and sacred of decision-making rituals: rock, paper, scissors.
Henry McCoy and Moira MacTaggert had wisely opted out, citing their urgent work on Dr. Trask's research papers. That left Logan, Colossus, John, and Ororo.
"One, two, three!"
In the first round, Logan's paper covered Colossus's rock. John's rock crushed Ororo's scissors. It was down to the final two.
"One, two, three!"
John threw rock. Logan threw paper. Logan won. He was in. But then Ororo, with a sly, knowing smile, had challenged him for the final spot.
"One, two, three!"
Ororo's scissors cut Logan's paper. She was in. He was out.
…
Logan took a long sip of his hot cocoa, the memory still fresh. "Why is that strange?"
"I don't know," John said, a thoughtful look on his face. "I would've thought you'd throw scissors. You know… with the claws and all. Seems fitting."
From the foyer, Colossus walked in, a steaming bowl of borscht in one hand and his own mug of hot cocoa in the other.
"Hey, Peter," John called out. "What did you throw that made you lose the first round to Logan?"
Piotr, with his usual quiet sincerity, answered, "I threw rock."
"See?" John said, a grin spreading across his face. "You can see from a first glance he'd throw rock. He's a rock kind of a man."
The three of them laughed, a warm, easy sound that filled the quiet room.
Just then, the smooth hum of a wheelchair was heard. Professor Xavier rolled in from the hallway.
Instantly, the mood soured. The laughter died in their throats. The warmth in the room seemed to curdle into a cold, awkward silence. The easy camaraderie vanished, replaced by a thick, unspoken tension.
Xavier saw it. He felt it. He was about to turn his wheelchair and go back the way he came, to leave them to their peace, when Logan's voice, low and gravelly, cut through the silence.
"Chuck."
Xavier stopped.
"We can share the drink."
Colossus, from his seat by the fire, added a quiet, "Da. Sure."
John remained silent, his gaze fixed on the fire.
