The Evils of Necessity

The trip to New York had been a complete success. Scott had flown them under the radar, Regan and Martinique swapping illusion duties between them every hour, cloaking the Blackbird as everything from a small storm front to a pod of dolphins leaping into the air. Wanda had chipped in, altering the small probability of them being caught so that it was virtually impossible.

 

Martinique had applauded her new costume, especially now that she’d trimmed the bodice into a severe V-cup, the twin projections from her bodice cupping her breasts while leaving most of her chest exposed. Regan thought it lacked dignity, now that she had assumed the added responsibility of representing Magneto’s wishes.

 

Upon landing in Manhattan, they’d all switched to civilian clothes. Scott’s had been packed for him by Rogue, as a lifetime of the color red had left him little ability to color-coordinate. He looked dashing enough in a red shirt, jeans, and black leather jacket—and virtually unrecognizable with the scruffy stubble and lack of sunglasses. Wanda had trimmed her hair and put on heavy make-up for an experimental goth look: corset top, leather pants, and a red duster. The Masterminds dressed as they usually did—blouse and slacks for Regan, cut-offs and crop top for Martinique, and they both illusioned themselves as wearing haute couture.

 

A quick hex from Wanda had led them to a car with the doors unlocked and the keys in the sun visor. From there, it was a quick drive to the Allan residence. Martinique drove, Regan in the passenger seat. In the back, Wanda sat on Scott’s lap. She told the twins to make the approach. They made themselves into teenagers, dressed in Gossip Girl regalia, and walked up the house’s front steps.

 

“What do you think of Scott?” Martinique asked. “Now that he has eyes, I mean.”

 

Regan thought about it. Like her sister, she was single, and there was only one context in which her sister would bring up a guy. “He’s cute, but too much baggage. You know Raven always goes for the broken birds. Him, that creepy Southerner…”

 

“Yeah,” Martinique sighed longingly. “He needs to recruit some new blood. There’s no one cute left in the Brotherhood. I’m thinking of asking Mystique to turn into Chad Michael Murray, just so we have someone to run a train on.”

 

As always, Regan’s friendly overtures ended with a hiss. “I’m not running a train with you!”

 

“We never do anything as a family anymore…”

 

“It was one time!”

 

Mrs. Allan came to the door. For a woman who had once fucked the Blob, she looked pretty suburban. You never could tell, Regan thought. Look at her—the height of sophistication, and look at Martinique. The exact same face. What did it mean? Who knew?

 

They asked about the girl and Mrs. Allan, thinking they were just schoolmates, told them she was off at a friend’s house. Regan got the name, thanked her for her time, and went back to Scott. Wanda was still giving him a slow-motion lapdance, Scott’s eyes clear but his hand firm on her leg.

 

“Well?” he asked, as if there weren’t a woman dry-humping him.

 

“She’s off with some schmuck named Peter Parker.”

 

Scott nodded. Finally having enough, he pushed Wanda back into her seat. She clung to his arm. “Alright then. Let’s go see Peter Parker.”



​A/N: Okay, I'll be honest. I don't think I'm getting much readership here and it's too hard to divvy up halves of what are meant to be one story to go into the different Spider-Man and X-Men sections. So if anyone's still reading this, I'll be posting only at Fanfiction.net and AO3 from now on.