I do not own X-Men or any of its characters.
War
John watched over the edge of the trench as the fog rolled in thickly. It was late. The sun had long-since set, and with the fog, visibility would be non-existent soon. And then, it was time. It was his turn. No guns. No cannons. No commanders telling him how to fight. Just like it was during the Revolution. And the Civil War. Now, again, the battlefield was his.
"Corporal Smith, you're up," the Staff Sergeant in charge of him said. "And this time, you'll have help."
John looked over at his help. Two men who looked to be in their early thirties, give or take. One had longer, wavy, black hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, though the sideburns were the most noticeable part, and the other had his hair cut short and a slightly bushier and more filled-in beard. John grinned instantly, nodding in greeting to them. He knew them well. James and Victor. They, like him, were mutants. Both had a healing factor and had been in the Civil War, fighting alongside John. James had a trio of foot-long bone claws in each hand that grew from between his knuckles. Victor's fingernails grew into claws a few inches long but still lethal. The pair were terrifying. Victor fought like a wild animal, while James fought like a furious brawler who couldn't be put down. Not that John was worried. He had his own abilities.
"Let's get this party started," Victor suggested with a grin.
They nodded, and the three of them climbed out of the trench silently and advanced. It took less than a minute to reach the German trenches. And the moment they had, the fun began. Before anyone could react, Victor and James had launched themselves into the soldiers, their claws ripping into them. And then, John had joined them. He dropped into the trench amid a downburst that fanned out around him in a green-tinted pulse of wind that shredded anything it touched, slaughtering a half-dozen soldiers before they knew what had even happened. And then, John was off at a dead sprint. A soldier stepped out of a branch in the trench ahead of him, with John hearing more behind him, but John spun around the soldier and shoved a hand into his chest. In an instant, a blast of wind had erupted from John's palm, opening the soldier's torso into a tunnel, and then shredded the three behind him. A soldier stepped out of the fog ahead of John, firing, and John collapsed, the back of his head missing. And then, the fog thickened, obscuring him for a moment before fading, leaving no sign of him. A moment later, John was standing behind the soldier and waved a hand toward him, the wind following his hand splitting him diagonally across the torso. John heard gunfire spreading rapidly through the trench, but smirked. James and Victor were just as unstoppable as John. He turned a corner, only for a pair of rifles to fire. Except, as the shots hit him, his body shattered like glass, and John himself suddenly dropped into the trench behind the pair, a pair of foot-long daggers seeming to fade into existence in his hands before he plunged them down into the soldiers' upper backs and into their hearts. He turned as a gun fired, the shot slamming into his chest, and his breath left him in a startled gasp. He collapsed, staring, wide-eyed, at the soldiers advancing on him, and one of them raised his rifle, then fired into John's forehead. And then, John was behind them. The body before them fading out of sight in the reverse way his daggers had appeared before. This time, however, his fingers were long, shiny blades, and he spun and swiped rapidly as he passed through the soldiers from behind, slaughtering them. He heard shouting from behind him, so he turned, his fingers blurring to even his own vision as though an illusion, the blades vanishing and leaving normal fingers behind as a grenade appeared in his hand in a similar but reversed fashion. He ripped the pin out and hurled it, and a moment later it exploded, a group of soldiers shouting in pain and dismay and terror as they were slaughtered.
As he neared the next corner, a T-shaped intersection, several shouts echoed from either side, and John stepped into the intersection and spun, wind roaring down both paths and shredding the soldiers. And then, a soldier dropped into the trench and slammed him into the wall. Except, the moment John hit, a blast of wind slammed into the soldier from either side and the front, hurling him backward into the wall of the trench with enough force to break his body, leaving him to die an agonizing death. John saw a group of soldiers approaching through the fog ahead of him and raised his arms. In a rapidly-sharpening blur, a Browning Automatic Rifle appeared in his hands and roared to life, slaughtering the soldiers before John cast it aside uncaringly, the rifle shattering into oblivion.
Further and further into the trench John advanced, repeatedly meeting up with Victor and James, sometimes individually and sometimes together. At one point, he found them fighting a swarm of soldiers back-to-back, so he assisted them by leaping over the trench and swiping an arm, dozens of daggers suddenly scattering from thin air into the on-coming soldiers, slaughtering them all as John landed beside the brothers.
"You're scary," Victor grinned.
"Thanks," John smirked as the Germans began to relay an order to retreat. "Off they go."
"Shall we give them a proper sendoff?" Victor asked.
John smirked, and the fog all around them was suddenly gone. Victor and James both shook their heads to clear the disorientation just as their own forces opened fire on the fleeing Germans.
"That fog was you?" James asked, shaking his head. "Just how strong are your illusions?"
"Not as strong as I'd like them to be, but stronger than I need the-" He was cut off as a stray round punched through his head, but after a moment, the body vanished and John sighed from off to the side, "but stronger than I need them to be."
"Together again, huh?" James smirked. "Must be bad luck."
"Yours, ours, or theirs?" Victor asked, passing John a cigarette, which John lit with an illusion of a lighter, then lit Victor's as well.
"Why not all of the above?" James asked, glancing at them. "Seriously?"
"What?" John shrugged. "I'm going to die. Repeatedly."
James rolled his eyes. Then, finally, the U-Boat slammed into the ground, the front of it dropping, and the dying began. The Allied Forces were slaughtered, the vast majority before they could even get off the boats. James and Victor charged through the oncoming rifle and heavy machine gun fire uncaringly. John was hit in the face before he could even move when the front of the boat dropped, then was suddenly charging up the beach with the others. An explosion went off beside him, killing him, and his body vanished before it hit the ground, reappearing below a machine gun bunker as he tossed a grenade into the opening as he leaned back against it. As the grenade exploded, several enemy forces rounded a corner to his left, and before he could react, he was gunned down. And then he was behind them, swiping his arms across his body and sending blades of razor-sharp air ripping into their bodies.
John charged through the tunnels, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he tore into the Japanese soldiers. They were ingenious in their strategy. The island had seemed deserted because all of their forces were in underground tunnels with small hatches, windows, and gunports to fire from all over the island. Hundreds of them. But now, John was inside. Blasts of razor wind, illusions of grenades, illusions of pistols and automatic rifles, daggers made of wind. There was no ability in his arsenal that he didn't wield against any enemy soldier he found.
John crashed down inside of a tunnel and groaned, looking around at the Vietnamese soldiers around him, then sighed, speaking in Vietnamese. "Trust me. You should surrender."
And then, the soldiers lunged at him, their blades flashing out, only for a powerful gust of wind to erupt off of John, ripping them apart.
John's eyes crawled open, staring hollowly at the ceiling for several moments before he sat up, yawning and stretching. Beside him, a gorgeous brunette shifted slightly, the sheets having slid down, leaving her beautiful, bare breasts exposed. He smiled, leaning down to kiss her cheek for a moment before climbing out of bed and stretching again before beginning to pull his underwear and pants on.
"You're up early," a thick, naturally-sultry, Australian accent spoke up behind him, the voice thick with sleep still, as the woman pushed herself up, yawning. "Bad dreams again?"
"Memories," John answered.
"Which wars?" She asked knowingly, climbing out of bed and joining him at the doorway, which looked out onto the beach of their home, tucked away in the middle of nowhere in Florida.
"World War One," John said. "And Two. Normandy and Iwo Jima. A brief flash of Vietnam."
"No Berlin?" she asked.
"Not this time," John shook his head.
She nodded. "I'll make coffee."
He smiled, turning and kissing her for a moment before letting her go. He sighed, staring at the water. He missed James and Victor. He wondered if they ever remembered. If they were haunted by the things they had to do, too. He supposed they probably were. James, at least. Victor might be too much animal for combat fatigue. And he loved it too much. Victor always had been addicted to the violence. The death.
"Here you go," she said, wrapping her arms around him from behind and holding out his coffee in front of him. "Three shots of creamer and enough sugar to spontaneously develop diabetes."
"You're my hero," he smiled, accepting the cup and the black, flame-like, tribal tattoo on her right upper arm before taking a drink.
They remained there in a comfortable silence for a long time, John allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of her bare chest pressed against his back, able to feel her breasts press tighter against him as she breathed. It was amazing how small things could help ease his pain. Finally, however, he sighed.
"Company," she noticed, James nodding.
After a moment, two men rounded the end of the path to their private stretch of beach, both of them stopping for a moment as they saw them.
"Oh, uh, hello," the younger of the pair greeted them, trying not to look directly at the brunette.
"G'day," she smiled, not releasing John.
"Terribly sorry for interrupting," the elder of the men apologized. "We can come back in a bit."
"You're fine," John said. "Ava was just about to get dressed."
Ava sighed heavily, but kissed him then walked into the house to begin getting dressed. As she did, John surveyed the pair as they walked closer. The younger of the pair seemed to be in his mid to late twenties, with neatly-combed, brown hair, grey slacks, a dark-blue undershirt, and a grey blazer. The older of the pair looked late twenties to early thirties with short, brown hair combed to the right, a pair of sunglasses, jeans, a dark-blue shirt, and a brown, leather jacket.
"Is the government conscripting me again?" John asked.
"Again?" Charles frowned.
"I take it you're new," John nodded. "I've been conscripted into every major conflict the United States of Hypocrisy, I mean America, has been in. The first time was the Revolutionary War, where I was kept bound in chains and held at gunpoint, for all the good it would do, until I was needed. Then the Mexican-American War, where they handed me a knife and said, 'Don't come back until we've won.' The Civil War where I was held in even less value than the slaves, at least until they needed me to win a battle for them. The Spanish-American War where they tested poisons and weapons on me instead of having me fight. The two World Wars, where they stuck me on the frontline and told me to go die for my country over and over, then beat me in between battles for being a freak. So, who are we fighting this time? Or am I just going to be a guinea pig for more weapon tests?"
"I think you misunderstand the situation," the older of the pair said, holding out a hand and levitating a pocket watch above it.
"Electromagnetic Manipulation," John mused. "Impressive. Hard to work around. So, what, you've got a slave?" He looked to the younger of the pair.
"Not a slave, a friend," the younger's voice spoke inside of John's mind. "We're like you. My name's Charles, and this is my friend Erik. We're gathering others like us to try to stop a war using the most destructive weapons in the world."
"Nuclear bombs," John said, grimacing in distaste. "Yeah, I know about those very well." He sighed, looking away for a moment. "At the end of World War Two, I'd had enough. I defected. I ran away to hide in Japan. At least for a little while. I figured the best place for that would be a place with the richest culture in the country."
"Hiroshima," Charles realized.
John nodded. "It was beautiful, peaceful, and surprisingly welcoming. And then it was gone."
"Then you understand why we need to stop this war," Erik said.
"Who is it against?" John asked.
"The Soviet Union," Charles answered. "Every day, The US sends missiles closer to them, and they send missiles closer to us. We're on the brink of war, and it's being manipulated by one of our kind, a powerful mutant named Sebastian Shaw."
John sighed heavily. "How many combat types do you have?"
"Currently none," Erik answered. "Though two of them have the potential."
John nodded. "Alright. I'll help. It's got to be better to work with my own kind than to serve under humans."
"Aw, you're goin'?" Ava asked, wrapping her arms around him again. "I was hopin' you'd stay for a bit longer."
"Sorry, love," John smiled. "Duty calls. As fucking always."
Ava sighed, nodding, and kissed him a final time before she, their house, and most of the trees and shrubbery providing privacy all shimmered and faded from sight. Charles and Erik both stared in shock as John picked his shirt out of the sand and shook it off.
"That was...all of it was..." Erik shook his head slowly.
"A solid illusion," John answered. "Useful for making me feel less lonely, even when I'm alone."
"But...I sensed her mind!" Charles gaped. "She was real!"
"Nope," John said, pulling his shirt on. "Illusion. We going?"
The pair glanced at one another before nodding, quickly leading him to a car parked nearby. As they walked, John pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and lit one.
"Alright," he sighed once he was seated in the back seat, one window rolled down to let the smoke out. "What do I need to know?"
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