X-Men: Savage Land Scandal Ch. 01

The City of the Sun God was crumbling. Once, the city of glass had been maintained by the same Atlantean technology that had helped stabilize the Savage Lands. But while that verdant jungle had become self-sustaining, the city had not. Many of its people had left for one local tribe or another. More still had been killed for disloyalty, speaking blasphemy against Garokk the Sleeping God. Of the Sun Empire, only this ruined city remained.

Zaladane knew this to be true. She told herself of it every day, speaking aloud in the measured tones that made such impassioned speeches to corral her remaining flock. Every day, she made pilgrimages to the ancient glass-that-imagined, seeing the days of yore when the entire Savage Land had fallen under the yoke of the Sun Empire, and the mountain underneath the City of the Sun God had shown its thrall with roars and great smoke.

But the smoke no longer came and the pictures, no matter how they moved, were still just pictures. And though every night she visited the tomb of her husband Garokk—who she was married to in absentia, as all high priestesses were stretching back to when the Sleeping God had walked—and she begged him to return, to awaken, to fulfill the dread prophecy that had once struck fear into all the tribes of the Savage Land... her faith was not rewarded. Her prayers were not answered.

She maintained her daily routine, bathing in the mountain water that chilled her like the heart of a stone. Once every possible speck of the wasting city's pollution was removed, she allowed the serving girls to anoint her with oil and rub it into her flesh until the dark skin gleamed like freshly polished onyx, her long, straight hair only a shade darker—marking her as the perfect mate for Garokk the Petrified Man.

The rest of her was similarly appealing to her long-lost, long-awaited husband. Her legs were long and powerful, tapering from firm thighs to dainty sandaled feet. Her arms were almost the same length, thin-muscled down to slender fingers, festooned with rings to give them the appropriate weight. A long neck led up to a narrow face of thin lips and slitted eyes, cruel cheekbones leading from her pointed ears to her pointed chin. In everything, she was tall and slender, like a diamond after being carved from the rough. Her breasts kept with the rest of her, unavoidably small, but well-framed by her red and white robes, which swept over her body like a bird's wings. She was a vision of striking loveliness, superior to any other among her people. And if she wasn't, she had them killed.

What remained of the once-mighty army had managed to capture a hunting party of Waidians. The green-skins would make adequate sacrifices to attempt appeasement of the Sleeping God. If not, perhaps in their entrails Zaladane would find some sign of her lord husband's return while she was still young and beautiful.

She had dreamed of him the other night. Garokk the Petrified Man had awoken and reclaimed the Savage Lands for her, his patient bride. First, he had rebuilt the City of the Sun God, more splendid and gleaming than ever! Then, he had reunified the People of the Sun, punishing some of the more egregious doubters to set an example, but forging the rest into an all-powerful army. Then, the Sun Empire resurgent! All the scattered peoples of the Savage Lands, no longer squabbling and worshipping, each in their own chaotic way, but all brought low before the might of the Sun Empire and its god!

Then, Garokk had fucked her as only he and he alone could do, dominating her, ravishing her, driving her to heights of pleasure that even her dreaming mind could not imagine.

That part of her dream was a little more vivid than the stuff about refurbishing the city, though it really did need it.

Soon, she knew, in her heart, her soul, her needing loins. Soon, the return of her lord husband, the end of the disbelievers, the reclamation of the Sun Empire. Zaladane stood in the balcony of her great citadel (greater still if they had possessed the technology to remove the graffiti from between the windows). She looked out at the City of the Sun God and, beyond its vined walls, the great reach of the Savage Lands. She imagined the unchecked growth razed into order, all the scurrying vermin that lived in that filth forced to kneel to her—and her lord husband, of course.

Perhaps she'd visit the Waidians before their sacrifice and offer her body to one or three of the more appealing ones. The Sleeping God would best appreciate an offering that had been shorn of lust, after all. It would bring her nowhere near the same pleasure as loving submission to her lord husband, naturally, but for her beloved, she would endure.

Suddenly, Zaladane heard a great thrumming overhead. Something was passing over her—her, in the highest tower of the city built atop the mountain! She looked up, and it took her a moment to know the shape of the thing, in all its bulk. It was like a great metal bird, though it moved slower than any she'd ever seen, more like the sun as it passed through the sky... or how a vulture slowly rode the air as it waited for its prey to submit to its deathly appetite.

And indeed, the vulture-thing was making a slow circuit of the Savage Lands, its shadow already passing over Gorahn Sea. She knew what this meant. It could only be outsiders, with their electric magic, and that meant one of the signs of the prophecy had been fulfilled! Soon, her lord husband would be returned to her! Soon, the Savage Lands would be made civilized!

She hurried to the Waidians' cell. She would have to celebrate... that is, give thanks to Garokk the Sleeping God for the blessing he was about to bestow upon her. The blessing carried within the outsiders' flying ship.

***

Jean Grey awoke slowly, not sure where... who she was. She'd been so many people over the past few months. The Phoenix, that cosmic entity whose animus was beyond all human understanding. Then a carny in Mesmero's sick circus illusion. Finally, a facsimile of her own ancestor, imagined to draw her into the clutches of Jason Wyngarde and the Hellfire Club. Being plain old Jean Grey, with her dull suburban childhood and gracious but unremarkable personality, was getting to seem...

Never mind that, she was Jean Grey, but where was she? Her mind was in shambles, the telltale sign of a psychic attack. One strong enough to overpower her? She remembered Scott—sweet, loving, dependable Scott—then violence. Capture! Bonds closing around her body, tighter, tighter.

She managed to get her eyes open. She'd come to rely on her psychic powers so much, in the wake of her death and fiery rebirth, that sight had become counterintuitive, like sniffing the air to learn your surroundings. She was in a small room, the glossy metal and blinking lights those of high technology. She was seated, her chair curving around her to secure her arms, legs, and head. She couldn't move, and her immediate impulse to disintegrate her captor simply resulted in a rush of blood to her head. She was imprisoned with inhibitor technology.

Jean looked around the room, feeling ashamed of herself for only now realizing that her friends were locked up with her. There was Scott—no, not him—Logan, Piotr, Ororo, Kurt... even Hank McCoy who had gone off to join the Avengers. All seated in similar chairs as hers, all lined up in a circle. Ororo was across from her, and it hurt Jean's heart to see the worshipped goddess denied the freedom she embodied so much.

"Ah, good, you're up." Jean recognized the voice, that Gwyneth Paltrow accent that wanted oh so very much to be British. She hadn't known she could be angrier at whoever had captured and imprisoned her and her friends, but hearing that voice...

Emma Frost, White Queen of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle, dominatrix, telepath, and supervillain, strutted into the room like she owned it and everyone inside. What grated on Jean was that both, for the moment, were true. And that Emma was dressed in a tightly laced white corset that did wonders for her breasts and waist; by contact, her white thong did nothing for her pubis but deflect accusations that she was totally nude. Her legs were actually covered more, encased in thigh-high boots of white leather and shielded from behind by the long cape of white fur that Jean could imagine coming off a polar bear, as if global warming weren't doing them enough favors.

She was a beautiful, intensely sexual woman, and Jean fucking hated her.

Emma did a circuit of the room, eying all her captives in turn like she was reviewing a purchase. Wolverine met with disappointment—the short, hairy mutant was an acquired taste even for his comrades in the X-Men. But the others were all approved, Emma's eyes lighting up in turn for each hard body and skintight uniform. She even took off her right glove to feel the thick, shaggy hair on Beast's chest, then the lighter and softer fuzz on Nightcrawler's face. Both met with hums of approval.

"I got into the wrong business. All day long, I'm surrounded by thugs. Even my fellows in the Inner Circle—chubby Leland, pompous Sebastian, and Donald Pierce... his cybernetic parts are far more appealing than what's left of his flesh. But you, Jeannie, you get to spend your hours surrounded by these fine specimens of evolution. Even your animals look like the toast of a furry convention. And here I'd heard that Dr. McCoy had a snout!" Emma laughed to herself.

Jean scowled, wanting more than anything to send a bolt of psychic force through the witch's bleach-blonde brain, but not risking it just yet. "What do you want, Frost?"

"The same thing as before. Mutants. Powerful mutants. To rescue them from their dull, ordinary lives and bring them into the rarified ranks of the Hellfire Club."

"I've heard your spiel before, Emma, and I know it's bull. You just want the power slaves can bring you."

"You don't seem to complain when it's that bald pervert in the wheelchair holding the whip."

"Don't you dare talk about the Professor that way!" Jean had to hold back her anger to keep from simply disintegrating Emma on the spot, and it was like trying to put out a fire with oily rags. "None of us will ever join you, Emma! You might as well release us now and hope we go easy on you next time."

Brushing her cape back to show off the swing of her hips, Emma advanced on Jean. "I don't want the X-Men. You're worth all of them put together and more besides. But first things first. I can see you haven't noticed your friends have joined us." Clapping her hands together, Emma looked around the room at the blankly staring eyes of her captives. "Welcome, guests, I trust you're all comfortable? I was just explaining to our girl Jean here your circumstances, so please pay attention, I will only be expositing once."

And, mockingly innocent, Emma sat on Jean's lap like she was about to ask Santa to bring her a new corset for Christmas. She made a gesture and Jean watched, horrified, as what looked disturbingly like a fembot in a French maid outfit entered the room. Even more disturbingly, it was a fembot in a French maid outfit, so overtly sexualized as to resemble one of that creep Hank Pym's inventions.

"Hello, children," the robot said in a voice that would be sugary sweet if not for the electronic trill breaking it up. "It's so nice to meet you. I hope we shall all be great friends."

"This is Nanny," Emma introduced, clapping her hand on the robot's arm as it passed to wipe a speck of dust off Kurt's chair. "She will tend to your every need. Well..." Emma smiled sinfully at Jean. "Almost every need. You'll find her to be the perfect mother. And you'll find this room to be the perfect cage." Almost lovingly, Emma brushed Jean's hair aside to touch the metal headpiece that Jean had felt restraining her. "This circuitry touches your central nervous system. As I'm sure most of you tried to use your powers on me the moment you awoke, I trust you've uncovered what its design is?"

Jean's rage flared. She summoned all her power and threw it at Emma's smugly beautiful face. Nothing happened. Her mind was clear as it could be with the Phoenix's passion and power inside it, but like a hand that had fallen asleep, her mutant gift simply would not obey her. She tried to move, gesture as had so often helped her concentrate, but that too was impossible. She spasmed like she was epileptic. Jean tried to scream and force her power out, but even that didn't happen. Her angry cry emerged scrambled into a baby's gibberish—a call taken up by the other X-Men as they seized with their own impotent power.

"You only think and speak because I allow it," Emma explained, tying herself closer to Jean, close enough to rest her head on Jean's shoulder. "What I do not allow is for the others to speak, for them to move, and certainly not for them to use their powers. I won't even allow them to die. No, your friends possess all the powers they've ever had, but they can no more use them now than they could as a six-month-old child. That's what they've been reduced to. Our little angels."

Jean felt speech return to her, the Phoenix's fury calming to a sulky chill. Emma had her. The most dangerous woman she'd ever known had her and her friends dead to rights, and for some reason was fixated on her in particular. Jean would have to play this smart—for her friends if not for herself.

"What do you want?" she asked in a low voice.

"I love that question, even when it's not asked in the bedroom." Emma nuzzled herself against Jean's neck in a parody of passion. "I want you," she said, her voice too so low only Jean could hear. "I liked having a Black Queen of the Hellfire Club—another woman of similar power to me. Similar passions."

"I am nothing like you."

"Not at the moment. But let's face it—Wyngarde never would've been able to cage the almighty Phoenix unless she saw something wonderful in captivity. The problem was this..." Emma kissed Jean's cheek. "This skin. This shell. The old and obsolete Jean Grey, 'Marvel Girl'. Always having to come up with excuses to get a nice, hard fuck."

"You're sick."

"Your dialogue's getting worse, dear. Are clichés all you can come up with to answer me?"

"I wouldn't dignify your twisted delusions with answers."

"Hear me out," Emma said, and for a moment, her voice was almost pleading. She kissed Jean's cheek again, coolly, precisely. Jean thought of a scalpel. "Your psi-blocks are very good. I can't get past them. But if you were to lower them, if you were to let me in..." Emma inhaled sharply, and Jean had the unpleasant feeling of being scented. "I could rewrite you. Bring you more in line with my own glamorous life. We could be like sisters. And all the times when life has bored and disappointed you... gone. Imagine discovering your powers anew, under my tutelage. Imagine discovering your body's capacity for pleasure." This kiss was longer, and closer to Jean's lips. "No premature ejaculation. No fumbling condom. Just the pleasure of our bodies entwined together. And after that... our minds. You feel my pleasure... and I feel yours. The only problem would be... how would we ever stop cumming?"

"The only way I've ever touch you," Jean whispered, "is to slap that disgusting smirk off your face."

Emma straightened, watching dispassionately as Nanny wiped her lipstick from Jean's cheek. "Well, you think about it. As a telepath, I'm sure you'll be able to pick up the brainwaves of these Avenger wannabes. When their despair becomes too much for you, simply ask for me, and I'll release them. So long as you release yourself."

"The Professor will send people for us," Jean swore. "You won't get away with this!"

"From anyone else, I think I'd delight in those DC Comics clichés. But you, Jean darling... you're capable of so much more." Emma stood, regally pulling her cape around herself. "Don't bother hoping for rescue. This vessel has taken us where no one will ever find us. It's important for new couples to have their privacy." With one last loving touch to Jean's face, she said her last: "You are going to beg to accept my offer, Ms. Grey. I always make my lovers beg before they're allowed to come."

And with a turn so sharp that her cape nearly slapped Jean in the face, Emma strode out of the room, leaving it curiously silent. Jean knew why the other X-Men were all as quiet as her. Knowing they couldn't say a word except as garbled noise, they kept silent so as not to distract the others. Each hoping fervently that another would come up with a plan... an escape.

***

Doc was never going to finish his memoirs.

He had the first part done, that was easy enough. How he and his unit had been doing cold-weather training in the Arctic Circle when a freak storm had forced them in-land. Their plane had been miles off course when they spotted a landing site. Well, not a landing site exactly, but they were paratroopers after all. They set the ol' crate on autopilot and bailed. That was the last time they had any hope of getting home.

Their sanctuary was an oasis in the subzero temperatures of the Arctic. Cut off by a circle of mountains and heated by a unique geothermal event, it had ended up a bit of prehistoric times preserved like a time capsule. Dinosaurs, woolly mammoths, even cavemen. No rhyme or reason to it. They'd marshaled their supplies, built a fort, adapted, survived. That would've been unbelievable enough for any video game--let alone what happened next.

Maybe I should save it for the sequel, Doc thought. Savage Land 2: Electric Boogaloo.

That's what the natives called it. The Savage Land. Okay, land that time forgot. That was one thing. Then they'd found the rotting lab covered in swastikas, the naked blonde comatose in her glass tank like a naked Sleeping Beauty, and the German lady scientist who gave them all the answers to ask more questions. Blondie ended up getting nicknamed Shanna, after some comic book character. Doc knew it was supposed to be Sheena, but the misspelling gave her a bit of identity. He knew he'd hate getting woken up in a tube and called Clark Kent for the rest of his life.

She, and the good doctor, Dr. Elsa, had become part of the family that'd been forged out of months of living in the wild. Doc looked around his cabin--the place he'd put up with his own two hands and a lot of others', sturdy wooden walls and palm frond curtains. He'd been there so long that he'd stopped counting all the modern conveniences he missed (except for indoor plumbing) and started putting dates and times to the bric-a-brac of living. The bullet hole in the north wall where Shanna had mishandled a gun, the dent where some palooka had gotten wasted on homebrew and passed out into the wall during a Christmas party. Facts be faced, it was home now. It was more liable that the only people reading his life and times would be the tykes they got from cozying up to the locals.

There was one tribe in particular, the Fall People—dark-skinned, shockingly advanced, very peaceful. They lived on a plateau within walking distance of the base, and there'd even been talk of building a bridge across the treeline so you wouldn't have to risk anything biting your ass off when you wanted a neighborly cup of sugar. Doc supposed it was a good idea. Place like this, no real enemy, no real objective, no movies and no books, you had to find something to occupy the time. Doc supposed the locals were as good a hobby as any. If he were ten years younger, he might try his hand at some local customs himself.

But he was old and fat and balding and too enamored of his mustache to shave it off, even though he knew it made him look like a walrus. Thank God he'd packed his Playboy collection before shipping out. He'd heard porn was hard to get your hands on in the Arctic; whoever had told him that had no idea.