The two clones picked themselves up, shaking the sand from their tattered hanboks. The divine pressure from Anubis's staff had faded, leaving only the vast, indifferent silence of the desert.
"That was stupid of us, wasn't it?" the second clone said, spitting a mouthful of sand.
"Yeah," the first clone agreed, his gaze distant. "It seems it's still a long way for us to battle a death god."
The second clone looked up at the empty, sun-bleached sky and let out a long, frustrated shout. "FUUCCKK!"
"Alright, let's go," the first clone said, his focus returning. He gestured to the still form of Mr. Qadir lying on the sand. "At the very least, we can give his body to the nearest people."
The second clone nodded and followed his brother.
…
When they arrived at the archaeological post, the small camp was a quiet hub of activity under the harsh sun. The clones walked into the center of the camp, one of them carrying Mr. Qadir's body with a gentle, respectful ease.
"Excuse me," the first clone called out. "Do you guys know this man?"
A woman and two men, their faces smudged with dirt and sweat, looked up from their work. Their expressions of weary curiosity instantly turned to shock.
"Dr. Qadir!" the woman gasped. "What happened? What did you do to him?"
The clone gently placed Mr. Qadir's body on a nearby cot. "I swear on all of my being, I have nothing to do with his death. I found him in this state, and I sensed this was the nearest human settlement."
The archaeologists were clearly shaken, their minds struggling to process the sudden, tragic sight. From a nearby tent, the flap was pushed aside, and a little girl, no older than twelve, stepped out, blinking in the bright sun.
"What's happening?" she asked, her voice a small, curious thing. "Did something happen?"
Then, she saw him. She saw her father's body.
The world seemed to stop. She rushed to his side, her small hands clutching his still form, her body shaking with sobs. She kept calling his name, telling him to wake up, her voice a heartbreaking mantra of denial.
The first clone could only close his eyes, a strange, borrowed sorrow filling him. The fragility of it all. One day, every being, would have to take that final walk. He knelt beside the crying girl, gently patting her head as the other archaeologists gathered around, their own faces streaked with tears as they tried to comfort her.
Suddenly, the air grew colder. A wind began to pick up, but it was wrong. There was no breeze against their skin. Looking closely, they saw it wasn't the wind moving; it was the sand itself.
"What the…?" the second clone muttered, his eyes wide. "Did Anubis have more to say?"
"No," the first clone said, his gaze fixed on the grieving girl. "It's coming from her."
The second clone didn't hesitate. He hurriedly began ushering the other stunned archaeologists to a safe distance. The sand around the girl began to spiral faster and faster, lifting from the ground, defying gravity, forming a swirling, miniature sandstorm that seemed born from her grief.
The first clone remained, sitting cross-legged in front of the girl, the vortex of sand whipping harmlessly around him.
"What is your name, little one?" he asked, his voice a calm anchor in her storm of sorrow.
The crying girl looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. "Sooraya," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Sooraya Qadir."
…
The cabin was quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the gentle, rhythmic breathing of sleeping children. Jack looked down at Kurt, whose blue head was resting peacefully on his lap, a small, contented smile on his face. With a softness that was a world away from his usual chaotic energy, Jack gently lifted the young mutant and carried him to his sleeping bag, tucking him in.
He then stood and walked over to the fire, where Hermes, Aska, and Ororo were sitting, mugs of hot cocoa still cradled in their hands.
"Still drinking hot cocoa at this hour?" Jack asked, his voice a low, amused whisper.
Hermes chuckled. "Only adults are around now." He reached behind his chair and pulled out the dusty, ancient bottle they had liberated from Olympus. "Here. Have some wine."
Jack's eyes lit up. "Are we finally finishing Dionysus's private stock?"
Aska laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Eager to drink, are you, young god? Let us just sit and enjoy the moment."
Jack sat down on the floor beside Ororo. She gracefully took a clean glass while Aska, with a surprisingly steady hand, poured the shimmering, purple liquid. Ororo then handed the glass to Jack.
"Here," she said, her voice a soft murmur. "I don't know how you guys got this, but this is some fine wine."
Jack laughed, a quiet, conspiratorial cackle. "Kekeke, you don't say. This wine is the wine of the gods, after all."
Ororo's brow went up. "Surely you're not going to stick with that narrative. You didn't actually steal this from some god's collection, right?"
Hermes, with a calm, beatific smile, took a sip from his own goblet. "Well, it's from Dionysus's collection. So I guess it still counts."
Aska, who had been about to take a drink, froze. "Lord Hermes," he said, his voice full of a sudden, profound reverence. "I cannot drink this if it is truly the drink of Dionysus himself."
Ororo paused, her glass halfway to her lips.
Jack and Hermes just looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Hahahaha!" "Kekekeke!"
"It's alright," Jack said, waving a dismissive hand. "Dionysus is barely a god anyway."
Hermes backed him up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yeah, he's not one of the twelve great gods. It's just that Aunt Hestia is too nice, so she shares her territory with him."
"Come on, drink," Jack urged.
Time flew. They chatted and laughed together, their quiet voices a warm, comforting presence in the sleeping cabin. At some point, Ororo, now wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket, looked at the two gods, her expression thoughtful.
"So, you're really a god, huh?" she asked Hermes.
"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No, no, I get that you're Hermes," she clarified. "In fact, I feel like the books and statues that depict you underestimate your presence. But I'm talking about Jack." She turned her gaze to him. "Is he really a god?"
Hermes looked at Jack, a silent message passing between them. 'It's your call to tell.'
Jack stared into the fire, his golden eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "Well," he began, his voice surprisingly quiet, "there are a lot of things in this universe that are outside of our imagination. I'm still taking steps toward my past self… and toward something even stronger." He looked at her, his usual manic grin gone, replaced by something more profound, more honest.
"So, you can say I'm walking toward godhood."
Ororo looked at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, 'walking toward godhood'? So you're not one right now?"
Jack threw his head back and laughed, a soft, gentle cackle that was a world away from his usual manic roar. "Kekekeke, potato, tomato. God, dog. What is all that shit but a word? All you should know is that I am me."
Hermes, who had been quietly observing, his gaze distant, spoke softly. "Will you reclaim your old name?"
Jack's laughter died down. He stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his golden eyes. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice surprisingly quiet. "I feel like there are a lot of pieces of me missing. I'll draw a conclusion when the time comes."
Ororo and Aska didn't understand the full weight of the conversation, the history that hung between the two gods, but they knew it was not their place to impose.
Time flew, measured not in minutes, but in the slow emptying of the ancient wine bottle. They all enjoyed their time, the initial formality melting away into a comfortable, easy camaraderie. Slowly but surely, they drank more and more. At some point, fueled by the divine vintage and the warmth of good company, Jack began to tell his story.
Ororo, who had been shivering slightly, was now huddled under the same thick, woolen blanket as Jack, their shoulders practically touching, their bodies connected by a shared, comfortable warmth.
"So, you're saying you were kidnapped when you were a child?" she asked, her voice a soft, empathetic murmur as Jack recounted his first meeting with his master.
Jack laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "I wasn't a child at that point. I was, like, twelve or thirteen, I don't know. And it wasn't kidnapping," he corrected, a wicked glint in his eyes. "It was a surprise adoption. Kekekeke."
Ororo's expression softened. She reached out, her fingers gently touching his cheek. "Oh, Jack," she whispered. "Why are you joking about your trauma?"
From the side, Aska let out a deep, appreciative laugh. "Hahaha! That's one way to gain immortality. Defy death by refusing to acknowledge its sting."
Hermes chuckled, swirling the last of the wine in his goblet. "I agree. But I'm more intrigued by this 'old perv' who taught you the way of immortality. From what I remember, that kind of direct teaching is forbidden, frowned upon in the god circles. If there is no agreement, you would be smited by every pantheon every time you set foot in their respective territories."
Jack's grin returned, full of a smug, unassailable confidence. "Kekekeke, what can I say? I'm just too good."
Time flew again, the conversation weaving through tales of divine politics, gangster brawls, and the simple, quiet moments that make a life. They were all, in their own way, tipsy. Even Ororo, who had only had one glass, felt a warm, pleasant buzz from the divine vintage. Jack and Hermes, with their godly constitutions, had nearly finished half the bottle each.
And so, the night ended, not with a bang, but with a quiet, gentle peace. Four unlikely figures—a storm goddess, a chieftain of elves, a god of messengers, and a monkey king walking toward godhood—sharing their stories, their thoughts, their time, and their hearts, a small, warm island of family in the vast, cold silence of the North Pole.
…
The swirling vortex of sand around Sooraya Qadir was a physical manifestation of her grief, a raw, untamed storm of sorrow and power. The first clone remained seated before her, a calm, unmoving island in her chaotic sea.
"Okay, princess," he said, his voice a gentle, steady thing that cut through the howl of the sand. "Can you look into my eyes?"
Sooraya looked up, her tear-streaked face a mask of pain, her small body trembling at the center of the storm she had created.
The clone gently placed his hands on her small shoulders. "Now," he said, his golden eyes holding hers. "I want you to watch me and mimic what I do. Okay?"
He began to hum, a low, melodic tune. Slowly, a single, shimmering peach blossom petal materialized from the air in front of him. Then another. And another. Soon, a gentle, swirling flurry of pink and white petals surrounded them, a beautiful, serene counterpoint to the violent, gritty storm of sand. The clone made the petals dance, weaving them through the sandstorm, their delicate edges cutting through the spiraling currents without being torn apart.
"Feel your surroundings, okay?" the clone said, his voice a soft, soothing mantra. "Your father is at peace. He will see you in your dreams, okay, princess?"
Slowly, surely, as Sooraya watched the beautiful, controlled dance of the petals, her own storm began to calm. The spiraling sand slowed, the howling wind softened to a whisper, and then, with a final, gentle sigh, it all settled back to the ground. The desert was still once more.
The clone gently carried the now-unconscious Sooraya in his arms and walked toward the stunned archaeologists.
The second clone, who had been keeping them at a safe distance, looked at the group. "So, do you guys know the girl's mother?"
The woman archaeologist shook her head. "We weren't that close with Dr. Qadir. He was a new explorer on our team."
One of the men added, "All I know is that Dr. Qadir brought Sooraya because there was no one else who could tend to her."
The other man confirmed. "Yes. We were hired to research and excavate this location. It's a confusing site. But before we could ask more with Dr. Qadir, he…" The archaeologist trailed off, his voice heavy with the unspoken finality of it all.
The first clone looked at the sleeping girl in his arms, then at the group of frightened, confused adults. "Alright then," he said, his gentle demeanor vanishing, replaced by a cold, absolute authority. "It doesn't matter. From now on, all of you go back. No one—and I mean no one—will say anything about the sand."
The archaeologists, thoroughly terrified by the man with the tail and the impossible things they had just witnessed, all nodded in silent, fearful agreement.
The second clone clapped his hands together, his usual cheerful demeanor returning. "Alright, people, move! Go search for a new job, will you?"
The archaeologists scattered, grabbing their belongings with a frantic energy, hopping into their jeep, and speeding away, leaving the two clones and the sleeping girl alone in the vast, silent desert.
The second clone looked at the first. "So, what are we going to do with her?"
"She's a mutant," the first clone stated simply. "I think it's best for her to be with the X-Men for now."
The second clone's eyebrow shot up. "Are you serious? They're like a disaster magnet."
"We need Xavier's help to search for her relatives," the first clone countered, his logic sound. "At the very least, he can use Cerebro to find them."
The second clone sighed, kicking at a loose rock. "Okay. Your call, man."
…
The first thing Jack was aware of was a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes. It was a hangover of divine proportions, a cosmic headache that felt like a tiny, angry god was trying to forge a new universe inside his skull. The second thing he was aware of was a soft, warm weight on his shoulder.
He cracked open an eye. He was on the floor, wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket. Curled up beside him, her head resting peacefully on his shoulder, was Ororo.
The third thing he was aware of was the faces.
A semi-circle of smiling, triumphant faces were staring down at him. The X-Men kids and teens. They were all there, their expressions a perfect mixture of amusement and blackmail-worthy glee.
Jack's brain, still sluggish from a night of divine wine, took a moment to process the silent, staring audience. Then, his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in.
"AHHH!" he shouted, a raw, panicked sound that was mostly just a pained groan.
His shout was a bomb in the quiet cabin.
Ororo jolted awake, a hand flying to her temple as she let out a low, pained moan.
From the sofa, a muffled thud was heard as a figure, who had been sleeping completely upside down with his legs in the air, tumbled to the floor. Hermes sat up, his golden hair a chaotic mess, his eyes wide with a confused, hungover terror.
And from the long wooden table, another groan was heard. Aska, the venerable chieftain of the Alfar, was fast asleep on his back, a half-eaten gingerbread cookie stuck in his magnificent white beard.
The kids erupted in laughter.
"Good morning, Uncle Jack!" Jubilee chirped, a mischievous grin on her face.
"Did you and Teacher Ororo have a good sleep?" Kurt added, wiggling his eyebrows.
Jack and Ororo, who just now realized the intimacy of their sleeping arrangement, scrambled apart, their faces a mixture of hungover misery and profound embarrassment.
"We didn't—," Ororo started, her voice a weak, raspy thing.
"—it's not what it—," Jack added, his head throbbing with every word.
They were too hungover to even form a coherent argument. They just sat there, clutching their heads, as the next generation of mutants enjoyed their complete and utter victory.
**A/N**
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**A/N**