The island was encircled.
Warships formed a tight perimeter around the mutant sanctuary—destroyers and cruisers spread in overlapping arcs, two aircraft carriers holding position farther back.
Every vessel maintained optimal firing distance, hulls cutting through the sea with cold, mechanical precision.
Across the decks, missile batteries rotated in unison. VLS cells opened with hydraulic hisses, revealing rows of Tomahawk cruise missiles. Targeting systems spun up, radar and sensors settling over the island with impersonal certainty.
Above, fighter jets broke from their holding patterns and slid into attack vectors. F-35s and F-22s stacked at multiple altitudes, weapons armed—JDAMs, Mavericks, bunker-busters calibrated to erase reinforced structures.
Nothing about this was symbolic.
This was extermination.
Inside the lead carrier's command center, officers watched walls of data: thermal scans, population-density overlays, strike grids. Every structure tagged. Every cluster of life marked in red.
"All units, this is Alpha Command," a voice announced over encrypted channels. "Targets locked. Hold position pending authorization."
"Roger. All batteries hot."
Then—
"Sir! High-speed contact originating from the island!"
A single blip tore free from the mass on radar, racing outward at impossible speed.
"Confirm," the commanding officer snapped.
"Confirmed. Velocity exceeding Mach three and accelerating. No heat signature. Not a missile."
"Then what is it?"
"It's… moving over the water."
Silence swallowed the bridge.
"Get me visual."
Cameras redirected. The main screen stabilized.
A woman was running across the ocean.
Not flying. Not hovering.
Running.
Her boots struck the sea as if it were solid ground, each step freezing water instantly into a widening path of ice. Temperature readings plunged in real time. Blue hair streamed behind her.
And she was smiling.
"Contact accelerating," the operator said, disbelief bleeding into his voice.
Deck guns slewed across the fleet. CIWS systems locked on. Sailors froze at their stations, watching the impossible figure close the distance.
On the flagship's deck, a sailor lowered his binoculars, hands trembling.
"Sir… she's enjoying this."
The commanding officer raised the optics.
Esdeath's grin filled the lenses—wide, eager, predatory.
"Distance?"
"Under one kilometer. Closing fast."
"All units—open fire. NOW."
The fleet erupted.
Deck guns thundered. CIWS systems screamed, vomiting tracer fire into the air. The sea churned under shockwaves as shells tore through the sky.
Esdeath kept running.
She lifted one hand, almost bored.
A wall of ice surged up before her. Shells detonated against it, bursting into steam and shards. Tracer rounds sparked, skidded, and vanished into frozen water.
The wall shattered under sustained fire.
Another rose instantly.
"She's still advancing!"
"Missiles—launch missiles!"
Hatches snapped open. Tomahawks roared skyward, arcing down in white contrails.
Esdeath glanced up.
She snapped her fingers.
The air flash-froze.
Ice raced across missile casings, locking fins, choking guidance systems. They fell like frozen birds, slamming into the sea and detonating in towering plumes.
"She's still moving!"
"Five hundred meters!"
"Get the jets—"
"They're already in!"
Above, fighters screamed through the sound barrier. Missiles dropped. Cannons opened up.
Esdeath stopped.
She stood calmly on the frozen sea as death converged from every direction.
Her smile widened.
"Mahapadma."
Time stopped.
Missiles hung motionless, smoke trails frozen like brushstrokes. Bullets hovered inches from her skin. Jets floated, engines silent. Even the waves were still.
Esdeath walked forward, unhurried, weaving between suspended weapons. She tapped a missile with one finger.
"Boring."
Ice spread instantly—across every frozen projectile.
She snapped her fingers.
Time resumed.
Missiles shattered midair into clouds of ice and fragments. Bullets disintegrated into frozen dust. Jets roared back to life, pilots shouting as their weapons simply ceased to exist.
"All ordnance—gone!"
"She's on us—!"
The next instant, Esdeath landed on the deck.
Ice exploded outward beneath her boots. A lance formed in her hand with a sharp crack. She took in the soldiers around her—raised guns, frozen fear—and her expression lit with excitement.
She laughed.
The lance swung.
Steel split like paper. Frozen shockwaves tore through the deck, men and machinery hurled aside or locked in ice and shattered a heartbeat later. She charged forward, freezing metal solid before smashing it apart—bulkheads, cannons, hull plating giving way under her assault.
Gunfire erupted, frantic and useless.
Esdeath didn't slow.
She leapt, struck, and tore through the destroyer as ice crawled across the ship, its structure screaming as it broke apart beneath her.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a slaughter.
***
In the air above, Luke watched the massacre unfold below.
For a brief moment, he felt pity for the soldiers. Brief—but real. He could've stopped it. He chose not to. He'd already warned them, already shown the world what happened when mutants were pushed into a corner on live television.
And they still came.
That meant they were either blindly obedient… or painfully stupid.
He sighed. "I gave you an example," he muttered. "If you still walk into it, that's on you."
Then a voice spoke behind him—too close, too calm.
"It seems there's another problem with you," it said. "What exactly are you two? You're not mutants."
Luke stiffened.
He turned.
William Stryker was standing there.
In midair.
Luke blinked once. "…Stryker?" he asked, genuine confusion slipping through. "Aren't you supposed to be human?"
Stryker smiled.
"It seems my impression of you was insignificant," Stryker said. "So insignificant that you forgot me."
The air thickened.
A familiar psychic pressure rolled outward, cold and invasive, pressing against Luke's thoughts like a hand closing around his skull.
Luke's eyes narrowed.
"…You're that guy," he said quietly.
He hadn't expected the Avatar of Corruption to be Stryker.
*****
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