Story: Diamonds, Dames, and Deception (all chapters)

Authors: Yimmy

Chapter 1

Title: The Teaser

X-Men.

Some call them heroes.

“....I know why I go on. Every one of those people gone--Mariko, Peter, Moria--makes me wanna stop their fate from fallin’ onto anyone else. So, I get up every day, put on my boots, n’ do what I need to do.”

Others call them renegades.

“Did she kill him?”
Not answering, he swept up the remnants of the mess and sighed.
“Good,” she said unexpectedly and resumed her moving.
“Good what?”
“I’ll get a chance to kill him myself.”

A scant few call them victims.

“Do you have my Christmas present, Toad?”
The disguised Toad patted the bag.
“Good. How many this time?”
“Last you for months. Get you a big Kick for a long time.”
Angrily, she snatched the bag from him and backed away. “Don’t you get lost on your way out.”
“And don’t ruin the plan,” he warned. “Master doesn’t like failure.”

They’ve defeated the greatest of enemies...

*Damn you, mutant!* the formless thing yelled. He stretched and warped and wrangled, but he couldn’t break free. For every act of struggle, he grew weaker, his mental manifestation losing cohesion.

... but today, a threat far worse lies in wait.

“You haven’t been here since the beginning. You haven’t seen all the crap that gets thrown at this mansion. If we’d fallen for this routine like you are now, we would’ve been dead by Sinister’s or Mystique’s hands long ago! Get rid of her and say goodbye to another potential headache. Scott, Jean, back me up on this one. We’re stretched thin as it is! We can’t afford to have anyone baby-sit her!”

Unfathomable machinations fall into place.

“Doctor Hayes,” a distorted, male voice greeted, “Would you like to destroy the mutant who ruined your life?”
“Wait a second, who is this?”
“Does my identity matter? Your mortgage payments are coming up, your pièce de résistance is gone, and I offer you a way to reclaim lost glory. Revenge, contrary to what people say, is a dish best served immediately, repeatedly, and with a side of wrath. So old chap, should we get cooking?”

Friends become foes.

“Bel, go find Quiet Bill. Tell him I be waiting for him at the landing up north. He’d know what I mean.”
Bella Donna let out a breath of frustration, and the crash on the other end of line probably meant another neat trinket on her desk had met an early demise. “Hurry, Remy. The Guild’s starting to get nervous, and you know how they can be.”
“Relax, chere. I be there, I promise. Now, de quicker you find Quiet Bill, de quicker I can be there.”

Through it all, two people struggle to define what they’ve become.

*Am I like a broken toy to you?* Emma snarled. *Do you feel the urge to fix me? Do us both a favor and shove it!*
Betsy narrowed her eyes. *Did I imagine that sudden stab of regret and Monet holding Everett’s bloody corpse?*
A loud thunder crack of a slap rang out. The slapper: Emma. The slapped: Betsy. *I told you to keep to your own mind.*

Diamonds.

*Now, if you’re done observing how I stay sane in this mutant madhouse, start giving an astral form to your martial arts skills.*
*I’m hardly a telepathic neophyte, Emma.*
*Then show me you’re not.*
*You’re stalling, and I don’t need powers to see that.*
*Way to promote my peace of mind.*

Dames.

“Ummm, do I get any feedback?”
Tessa shot a glance at him as she tied her shoes. “Like what, Robert?”
“I dunno. Nice ass? Sloppy moves? Awesome packaging? Fast shipping? A++?”
She actually looked contemplative for a moment. “Good package. Average technique. May do business again. 3 out of 5.”

Deception.

“I’ve got him.”
“Oh my, oh my, what took you so long?”
“He probably got lost. I found him at a stoplight a block away from the meeting place.”
“Astounding, Mystique. You are truly worth every penny of your services.”
“Easily impressed, aren’t you?”
“My fellow sister in blue, I don’t ask for much, only the world on a platter. But before I get too off-base, why don’t you drive the good doctor back here and I can continue with my plan?”

The life of an X-Man just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Your style is remarkably like Psylocke’s. I did not know you studied aikido or karate.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“No, I do not, but I make it my business to scrutinize, analyze, and dissect all information available.” The blonde continued on her way out, ignoring Tessa. “I have found a disturbing trend on the premises of late. Because I only have conjectures at this point, my words to you are simple: I will be watching your every move.”

Comin’ at you live, bub.

*******************

- The story begins soon...

Chapter 2

Title: Hank's Got a Problem

Chapter 1: Hank’s Got a Problem

Henry McCoy, renowned scientist, outspoken mutant, and former X-Man, rolled around in his bed, caught in the grip of yet another terrible nightmare. Throughout his life, the man called Beast had been subject to unspeakable horrors and atrocities, most of which would shatter the mind of a normal human. The comfort, the will to go on, the ability to keep fighting the “good” fight, stemmed from his determination to prevent those aforementioned disasters from falling upon anyone else.

But even the greatest of spirits break in due time. Hank broke six months ago when the madman, Vargas, broke every bone in his body and impaled his friend, Betsy Braddock, a.k.a. Psylocke, through the stomach, killing her. Even when the bones mended, something was never quite right with Hank after that. Perhaps it was the helplessness which seized him as he writhed on the cold floor or the empty gaze in Betsy’s eyes as the body bag was zipped up, but shortly afterward, he quit the X-Men. His resignation barreled into an ocean of responses, the most heated when Logan cornered him in his lab.

“Look Hank, Betts gave up her life so you an’ Rogue could live. I got no qualms with you takin’ time off an’ sortin’ out your thoughts. What rubs my fur the wrong way is you up and leaving the rest of your friends--your family--behind. The Hank I knew was never a quitter.”

“You are correct,” Beast allowed while lifting a heavy box of spare computer parts, “But the Hank you knew is dead. I think Ms. Pryde said it best when she took away Piotr’s ashes: ‘I’m tired of death.’ And frankly Logan, I am so very tired.”

More words were exchanged after that, eventually degrading into a fistfight which Emma Frost of all people had to break up. Logan left with a fractured jaw and a broken rib while Beast himself sported a broken nose. The rest of the parting exchanges didn’t come to blows, but the words smarted like no wound could. Disappointment, guilt, sadness, frustration, confusion, surprise, anger--each reaction attached itself to the appropriate face.

“Dis da way it ends, mon ami?” Gambit, cigarette at hand, leaning up against the doorframe while casting a wayward glance down the hall at a pissed off and semi-hurt Wolverine.

“Henry, don’t blame yourself. Blame me for your pain.” Storm, her toughened exterior adding yet another thick layer, ready to accept the hate of another for the good of the team.

“Ah’m gonna miss ya, Beast. Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?” Rogue, tears streaming down her face as the self-loathing and frustration reflected Hank’s own rattled state.

*Quite a trip down memory lane.*

The unexpected voice shattered the imagery littering Hank’s dreamscape. Caught between wakefulness and sleep, Beast felt the foreign presence exert its power and trap his panicking mind in place. A flash of pain lanced through his being, making him roar like an animal. Through squinted, tear soaked eyes, he saw the lithe form of Psylocke, the mark of the Crimson Dawn gone from her face, but other than that, quite alive.

Approaching her immobilized prey, Psylocke grinned sadistically, her psychic knife coming into existence. *Hank McCoy,* she purred, slowly tracing the knife around Beast’s jaw, *How sweet of you to still remember me.*

*This... isn’t.... real....* grunted Hank, resorting to denial to defend himself. *All in... my... my...*

*Your head? Sure, of course this is in your head. How else could I be doing this? Not like you left me with much of a body being buried at Braddock Manor for so long now.*

*Betsy, I’m so sorry. I... I...*

The psychic knife plunged through the captive mutant’s temple. *Tell them,* whispered Psylocke, *Tell them that I’ve come back to claim my revenge.*

Hank woke up screaming, sweat matting his blue fur to his skin. Heart pounding like a marching band bass drum, he heaved gulps of air as his entire body convulsed, the trademark aftermath of Betsy’s deadly psychic knife. Sheets were torn asunder while the mattress absorbed inhuman punishment, every item surrounding Beast bearing the brunt of his desperate flailing.

Soon, he stopped thrashing, the movements replaced by silence.

*****************

At Xavier’s Institute for Higher Learning, Emma Grace Frost carefully brought the cup of white chocolate mocha to her lips, savoring the coffee’s warmth and silky smoothness. Around her lay a sea of term papers, all in varying states of “gradedness.” Poet laureates and professional novelists these children were not, but a disturbing amount of the aforementioned papers read like train wrecks and in some cases even looked like them.

As a senior instructor at the school, Emma was responsible for reading over a good number of her students’ semester-end final project, the broadly defined “My Observations on Mutanthood.”

Rubbing her temples, Emma picked up a random wad of paper and steeled herself for the tedious and often painful task at hand. Wouldn’t something, ANYTHING, save her from the students’ half wit, half assed-

And the savior came in the form of someone knocking on the door. Giving a sigh of relief, Emma replaced the paper and reached out with her telepathy to see who she should thank for staving off this hideous eventuality. A pupil perhaps? Maybe even Charles, but he was unlikely. One of the groundskeepers?

The guessing game came to a screeching halt when she felt the semi-familiar, always distant (at least to Emma) Kitty Pryde.

She suppressed her urge to rifle through Pryde’s mind. Although Shadowcat was a welcomed ex-member of the X-teams, she made it known that she wanted nothing to do with death anymore. Occasionally, she’d show up or call the mansion in search of Wolverine, Nightcrawler, Beast, or the Professor--well, not Hank so much given how he’s off on his own. Never had she made an attempt to talk to Emma herself, not that the blonde cared or minded. After all, their first impressions made years ago didn’t go well, and ever since then, whenever they were on the same side, an aura of distrust came between them.

Emma shut off the reminiscing part of her mind and called out, “Katherine, please come in.”

“Thank you.”

She looked... rejuvenated. Last Emma saw Kitty, she was haggard and tired. Her hair was short then, her way of dress coarse and her posture rough--par for the course for an X-Man. Now, this Pryde looked different, complete with a thick offering of brown locks and a sense of serenity gained from having the world run her over about a hundred too many times.

*In other words,* Emma mused, *She looks likes me.*

She quickly brushed that fleeting thought aside. “What can I do for you, Katherine?”

Oh, make no mistake about it: Shadowcat was here only because of a last resort. No way would she bare her neck to “Frosty” willingly. All her various mentors, acquaintances, and alternate-dimensional friends must’ve failed her before she even considered darkening the White Queen’s doorstep.

The two had an understanding like that.

Without preamble, Kitty said, “I was wondering if you could help me find Hank.”

So many replies to the request, some hostile, some compliant, all pushing the envelope. But why? Absolutely no reason to be condescending, that was the new Emma Frost’s philosophy. Let them have it when they deserved it because anything otherwise would waste too much energy, energy she didn’t have anymore after taking this damned job.

Instead, Emma asked a question out of genuine concern. “Is there something wrong with Hank?”

The Beast was a regal man, a thorough-bred gentleman, and when most had written her off, he didn’t. A part of her deep down (VERY deep down) cared for the blue haired mongrel. Unless something was amiss, why wouldn’t or couldn’t Kitty get in touch with him? The resources at her disposal were more than capable of scouring for one man sized furball.

“He’s just gone,” Kitty replied, trying to keep the conversation as professional as possible, “I went to his apartment a day ago and he wasn’t there. The bedroom was in ruins but I couldn’t find any clues where he went. I’ve tried calling the Professor but no one’s picking up...”

Emma nodded slightly. “Off saving the Summers family tree again.”

“I see...”

“And yes Katherine, I will help you find Hank.”

Kitty let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “When can we get started?”

“Right now,” the White Queen stated, picking up the phone and dialing a number. Seconds ticked by before someone picked up. “Hello Isa. Yes, good day to you too. I’m ecstatic over your ability to read the Caller ID screen. I need you to run a search for me. Why? Because I said so. No time you say? Let me put it this way: I own the phone you’re using, the floor you’re standing on, and the computer holding all your research. Yes. Yes, call it ‘funder’s perks’ if you like. Ok, that’s more like it. Thank you for your cooperation. Now, search for one Dr. Henry McCoy. Yes, THE Doctor Henry ‘Hank’ McCoy. Call my cell with the results.”

With just a little extra force than necessary, Emma threw down the phone. She returned her gaze to Kitty, charming smile erasing all signs of her infamous ice queen demeanor. “Would you care to have a seat?”

Kitty stood dumbfounded. “What just happened?”

Emma sat and shrugged. “I called in a favor.”

“Who happens to have a mutant tracking device?”

“My dear, surely you don’t think Frost Enterprises is just a fancy name. I have subsidiaries which branch out into all facets of the global market. Funding mutant research happens to be a subject very dear to my heart.”

Kitty bit back the caustic remark threatening to spill from her mouth. Emma always managed to put her on the edge, but as it was, the blonde was all smiles and sunshine. Instead, Kitty delved into more acceptable conversation pieces.

“What other kinds of research do you endorse?”

“Dangerous research,” Emma replied, “Research that bigots and hostile government figures would kill to get a piece of. I control the most detrimental projects so that they will not get out and make my world a worse place for me.”

“What about Cerebra?”

“Forge is fixing it. Won’t be ready for another week.”

The two stared at each other for a good ten minutes after that. Kitty tried to say something more to break the silence, but nothing seemed appropriate under the White Queen’s unwavering gaze. Emma, for her part, internally laughed, amused at the sheer intimidating presence she held over Kitty.

Who ever said Emma wasn’t petty?

The staring match would’ve continued indefinitely if an explosion didn’t rock the mansion. Both women leapt to action right away, scrambling for the window to try and get a sense of what was happening. Besides the prerequisite dust, soot, debris, and demolished front gate (*Really,* Emma thought to herself, *How many times has that thing been destroyed like that? Why, I know I did that at least two times.*), nothing seemed to be amiss.

No laughing villain. No charging humans. No protesters (Thank God). No additional explosions. Nothing.

“Come on,” Kitty said. She grabbed Emma’s wrist and activated her powers, phasing them through the wall and slowly touching down on the front lawn.

Being close to Christmas, many students left to be with family. If not that, then at least they were having a relaxing day out on the town. Add the pending Summers family crisis to the mix, and well, that left Xavier’s Institute nearly abandoned. Good thing too since the children tended to flock toward random explosions and other forms of trouble like a moth to a flame.

Despite not being frontline fighters, the two had more than enough experience to approach with caution. Kitty phased and took the lead while Emma held back and scanned for signs of trouble. The blonde only picked up one signature, and it was an awfully familiar signature.

“Katherine!” yelled Emma. “Henry is in the debris!”

Shadowcat nodded and disappeared into the dust. Emma continued scouting, keeping an eye on Kitty and another on potential danger.

*All clear,* Emma telepathically said. *Phase Henry out of the debris so we can assist him.*

A few grunts accompanied the mental reply. *Easy enough for you to say, Emma! Hank weighs a ton! Little help here?!*

*And ruin my Gucci boots?*

*This is no time to be vain!* Kitty shouted, after which some unintelligible grumbles came out.

*You’re young,* Emma shot back, smiling at Kitty’s choice words, *I can’t phase, and Henry, though hurt, isn’t in critical condition. You can handle it.*

*Unlike your Gucci boots?*

*Yes, unlike my Gucci boots.*

Reappearing from the destruction with Hank in a tow, Kitty materialized and waved Emma over. “Fat help you were,” she said out of frustration, aloud this time.

“On the contrary,” Emma pointed out, “You asked me to find Henry for you, and voila, here he is.”

Letting the conversation die, they positioned themselves to carry the Beast into the infirmary. As she lifted Hank’s arm so she could put it over her shoulder, Emma spotted a sliver of paper clenched in the man’s left fist. Her curiosity got the better of her as she pulled it from his grasp and shoved it in her pocket.

Kitty was none the wiser.

Halfway to the mansion, Emma sensed another presence appear out of nowhere. Her inability to identify, much less get a good read, on the subject made her shout a “Look out!”

The pessimist in Emma expected to be taken off her feet or shot at, and by reflex, she shifted into her diamond form. Strength augmented, she pulled the Beast into her arms and spun around to meet the threat. Kitty wasn’t idle either as she rolled to the side, her battle hardened instincts making her react before her mind caught up.

And catch up it did.

“Brian?” Kitty said upon seeing the ex-Captain Britain--former Excalibur teammate, dear friend, and current ruler of the Otherworld--dressed in a jeans/t-shirt ensemble and hovering in midair.

For a second, the man’s eyes lit up in joyous recognition, but then his expression dulled when he remembered why he was here. “Kitty, are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” stated Emma. “I want to know what’s going on, Mr. Braddock.”

Squashing the annoyance at having been interrupted, Brian focused on the White Queen. “I take it you just found Dr. McCoy?”

Emma nodded.

“This,” Brian sighed, “is going to take smidge of time. Come on, I’ll help you with him and fill you in on what’s happening.”

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 3

Title: More Than You Can Handle

Chapter 2: More Than You Can Handle

The trio sat in the medlab waiting room, each nursing a cup of coffee. Hank was in stable condition--few bruises, maybe a concussion--and was still unconscious. There were signs of a telepathic attack too. While Emma wanted to do an in-depth mental probe, she figured the information garnered from Captain Britain probably fell in the “good-to-know” category. She kept her mouth shut and let old Excalibur duo do the talking.

“I’ll get right to it,” Brian began, “There’s been series of cataclysmic events in the realms surrounding earth and all sorts of nasties have gotten loose. Kitty, you remember Belasco.”

“Do I ever,” the woman growled, taking a page straight out of Wolverine’s playbook.

Emma at least raised an eyebrow, but Brian seemed used to the mannerism. He continued on without even acknowledging it. “He tried to retake Limbo, and to bolster his forces, he took powerful spirits, warped them, and put them into demons. With the help of Doctor Strange, the new Magik, and the Black Knight, we managed to push him and his ilk back. But...”

Sighing, Kitty shrunk into her chair. “There’s always a but...”

The man grimly nodded. “Belasco has been banished, but the spirits he conjured weren’t. Freed from their master, they rampaged over the Otherworld, slaking their demonic thirst. I’ve personally dealt with most of the spirits, healing them and returning them to their rightful place. However, there are two spirits that remain, and with their combined knowledge and powers, they’ve eluded us and found a way into this world.”

“You and Meggan rule the Otherworld,” Kitty pointed out. “Doctor Strange is almost infallible. Amanda controls access from there to here. How could they make it here?”

“One of the spirits is Illyana.”

Kitty bolted up like electricity shot through her. She remembered the late nights comforting Illyana over what Belasco did to her. She remembered the agony her friend endured at the demon’s tutelage. She remembered the pains she went through to avoid her fate. She remembered the immense responsibilities the girl took on when she began Magik. She remembered her noble acts, kind soul, and endearing smile. She remembered promising Peter to keep her safe. Most of all, she remembered burying Illyana after the Legacy Virus took its toll.

“No!” yelled Kitty, “That... that THING already ruined enough of Illyana’s life! He couldn’t have done that to her! He can’t have...”

“But he did. With her command of the stepping disks, Belasco wanted to gain access to Earth and overtake mankind. He fueled all his minions with hate so they’d be easy control--in particular, hate against everything not demonic.”

Despite finding the story intriguing, Emma couldn’t help but notice, “You said there were two spirits you’ve yet to recapture. Who is the second one?”

Brian’s shoulders slumped at the question. “The second spirit is my sister, Betsy.”

You could hear a pin drop in the room. Kitty was the first to break the silence, pulling the man into an embrace. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Brian...”

“Thank you,” he replied. The conversation, however, seemed like a well-worn one. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and spun the finish to his tale. “Belasco knew what he was doing. He knew my sister had insights into my abilities and habits. He knew she could get around me. He knew she could strike at the X-Men whom he viewed as his greatest obstacle to overcome when he made it to Earth. The bastard also knew about her imprisonment of the Shadow King, and he’s loosened Betsy’s hold on the beast so she could become more powerful but still have him under control. In addition, he imbued Betsy with a strong hate for the X-Men, making her think that it was all of you who left her for dead. So, Illyana and Betsy... with their combined abilities, they’ve been able to elude us and come to this world to act on the hate Belasco left them with.”

He looked in the direction of the room holding the Beast. “Which brings me to Dr. McCoy. He’s their first victim so far, and Meggan and I have been playing catch up with them for the past two days. I tried to warn all of you, but they got here before me.”

“We should get the whole team,” said Kitty. “We’ve got to help Illyana and Betsy! Look what they did to Hank already. What if they do this to the people in the X-Corps? We’ve got to gather everyone and put a stop to th-”

“No,” Emma interrupted.

Brian and Kitty looked at the blonde like she’d sprouted another head. “What?!” they both exclaimed.

The White Queen crossed her legs, making her captive audience stew a few seconds. “We don’t mass the troops, or, as Rogue so eloquently puts it, ‘Cowboy up.’ That’s exactly what these two want. Think about it for a second: why return the Beast to us if they had him captured? If I remember correctly, Ms. Rasputin’s power allowed her to teleport places without much fanfare. They risked exposure and capture by blowing up the mansion gates and leaving him here.

“In my experience on the other side of the proverbial fence, I’ve noticed that the X-Men swarm like a beehive, massing and attacking once an individual has been threatened. These two are short on manpower and hunted by superior foes--they know that if they’re going to irreparably damage the X-Men, they only have one chance to do it. With Henry thusly injured and our pride hurt, we’ll come together and that’s when they’ll unleash whatever they have planned. They’re gambling that they’ll have a little time to prepare themselves as we sort out the confusion. If we’re going to bring a favorable end to this fiasco, we have to strike now with a small team. That way, we minimize our reaction time and put them in an awkward position, making them unable to decide whether they’ll use their last resort or not.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Brian, more out of curiosity rather than sarcasm or malice.

“Easy. They didn’t attack us outright. If they weren’t worried about our numbers or powers, they would’ve gutted the mansion, taken Katherine and myself, and killed us before you showed up. As it is, their caution shows their concern. And about whatever coup de grace they have up their sleeve? All signs point to one with Henry being left here, the mansion being relatively unharmed, and the note they put in Henry’s hand.”

“Wait,” said Kitty, “What note?”

The blonde retrieved the slip of paper from her pocket and showed it to her companions. “I found it in the Beast’s left hand as we were hauling him up here. Read it for yourself.”

And the note only contained one line: “The Shadow King will live. –Psylocke.”

*****************

“Great,” Kitty mumbled as the group trudged through a swampy but barren Limbo, “Tell me how the four of us are suppose to prevent this Shadow King from leaping out of Betsy and killing everyone?”

Magik, known to Kitty as Nightcrawler’s former girlfriend, Amanda Sefton, shrugged. “Not letting the Shadow King out would be a nice start.”

“Don’t worry,” Emma said. “It’s an empty threat.”

Kitty couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “Why don’t you enlighten us, your highness?”

“Mind your manners,” smiled Emma, though her words held a venomous touch. “It’s an empty threat because if Psylocke wanted the Shadow King to be out, he would already be wrecking havoc regardless of our intervention. Seeing as my telepathy is intact, the Shadow King should still lie under her control. And since he isn’t out, that leads me to assume his presence would be detrimental to our former friends as well. They’ll be sorely disappointed at seeing so few of us present and think twice before using what is looking more and more like a last resort.”

“What if Psylocke doesn’t care and already has the Shadow King waiting for us?” Magik asked.

“Then we’re fucked,” the blonde said without hesitation.

Not for the first time today, Kitty admitted her respect for Emma, only this time, she voiced it. “How do you analyze the situation like that?” she asked appreciatively.

“Business acumen. Women’s intuition. I’ve had a great deal of practice in both.”

Brian steered the conversation toward more pressing matters. Despite his many times facing it, Brian didn’t like to think about impending doom, especially since that impending doom came in the form of his sister. “You really cannot sense them, Magik? Limbo is your realm.”

The woman frowned. “Illyana always hides her tracks well. I know they opened a portal into this part of Limbo recently, but I can’t pinpoint them.” She paused before asking, “Are the others having any success?”

“No,” said Brian after he mentally reached out to check on his wife’s efforts, “Meggan, Stephen, and Dane are coming up with nothing too. If we keep walking, we’ll be meeting them soon...”

“Which means this search has been a waste of time,” Magik finished, swiping her sword against an unfortunate piece of vegetation.

The ruler of the Otherworld turned to Emma. “Your telepathic abilities telling you anything?”

“Other than this place is a flithy wasteland?”

On the group walked, each step weighing further on their spirits. “You do realize the longer we take to find them, the better prepared they are going to be to fight us,” said Kitty.

No one answered her. They just kept walking.

“What are we going to do when we find them?” she pressed.

“Hopefully, we’ll have the element of surprise,” Brian answered for everyone. “With two parties, we can pin them down and either Doctor Strange or myself can cleanse their souls. It doesn’t take too-”

The blinding pain hit Brian like a kick in the pants. Immediately, his mind flashed to his Meggan being ruthlessly attacked by Illyana. Before he could even express the images assaulting him, a green column of mystical energy erupted from the air and struck an area up ahead like a lightning bolt.

Taking a clue from Brian’s pained face and the sudden output of power, Amanda concluded that their prey was found. She focused, found the battle, and effortlessly whisked her group away to join in.

While Amanda and Brian, both used to teleporting, landed on their feet, Kitty and Emma tumbled to the ground, caught flatfooted by the sudden displacement.

“Little warning next time?” Shadowcat said as she rubbed her sore behind.

All levity got thrown aside when the four surveyed the carnage. Meggan was down, a gaping wound in her side bleeding profusely. The Black Knight looked worse for the wear--his leg was bent in an unnatural position as he sat guard over Meggan. Illyana, dressed in her old Magik armor, circled them like a vulture, her twisted version of her Soulsword gleaming with inhuman thirst. Doctor Strange--separated from his companions--hovered over the ground, a green globe of energy shielding him from Psylocke’s psychic knife.

Immediately, Brian leapt to Meggan’s aid, hurling himself at Illyana. The maneuver took the sorceress off-guard, sending her on an unscheduled flight and separating her from her sword. Magik tried to follow up Brian’s performance by disabling Psylocke, but the woman was too good, too slippery. In the midst of pressing her advantage on Strange, the demonic incarnation of Betsy managed to find the time to extend a set of claws from her fingertips and rake Amanda across the breastplate, penetrating and drawing blood.

The battle stopped for a split second as everyone on the battlefield gathered themselves.

“Well,” Psylocke laughed, noticing that she was surrounded, “Wondered when my dear brother would show up with his friends. Tell me, luv, where’s everyone else? Where’s Ororo and the rest of her traitors? Where’s Jean and her legendary Phoenix Force? Hiding behind a tree?”

Emma brushed the thin layer of slime off her pant leg and straightened her back. “I’m afraid what you see is what you get, Elisabeth.”

“The White Queen?” she snorted. “I threaten to unleash the Shadow King on the world again and all Xavier sends is YOU?!”

“I’m more than you can handle, darling,” Emma said, calmly walking up to Betsy.

Seeing Illyana stunned and Magik wounded, Brian moved to face his sister, but Doctor Strange lifted a hand up to get his attention.

“We need to stop Illyana first,” the Sorcerer Supreme said. “Without her, your sister cannot escape.”

A great explosion from Illyana’s general direction shook the ground. It threw the Black Knight onto his back, aggravated Meggan’s wound, and assaulted everyone else with swamp water and dirt. Standing at the epicenter was an increasing demonic looking Illyana, complete with glowing red eyes, scaly skin, and big, sharp, saliva-dripping fangs. Her Soulsword also reappeared in her hand.

“Who said anything about escaping?” she roared, charging into the crowd with reckless abandon. His wife and friends injured, Brian had to acquiesce to Strange’s direction.

That left one telepath to duke it out with another.

*****************

“I think you’ve had enough,” taunted Psylocke.

Currently, she straddled a prone Emma who was doing her damnedest to stop the psychic knife from plunging into her skull. The White Queen recalled something about the knife being a telekinetic attack now, not a telepathic one. Either way, she didn’t want to get skewered by that thing. For the time being, unidentifiable swamp grime coated her white leather jacket, stray branches scuffed up her Gucci boots, the fist fight ripped up her favorite pair of gloves, and her right ankle seemed to be sprained.

That didn’t set too well with Emma.

After a little more struggling, Psylocke’s psychic knife shrunk, then with soft flicker, disappeared. Her eyes grew wide in astonishment, quite a contrast against Emma’s triumphant smile.

“Bad Betsy, no telepathy for you,” the blonde sweetly chided.

While Betsy did rely heavily on her powers, she wasn’t helpless without them. She had an impressive array of martial arts training, and the blows which rained down on Emma proved just how deadly Psylocke could be. Add to the fighting ability her enhanced demonic strength and speed, and well, after the seventh punch to her side, Emma almost felt like taking her chances with the psychic knife.

Pinned up to a tree by her neck, Emma lost her mental hold over Psylocke: pain did that to concentration. At first, she hoped to bait the woman, worm through her mind, and simply shut her down with a mental blast. Betsy’s defenses were formidable, but her overwhelming anger allowed the blonde to sneak in undetected, bypass most of her shields, and wait for the right moment to short circuit everything. Emma thought she had Betsy beat--that’s why she tipped her hand and turned off the psychic knife--but those aforementioned defenses were more formidable than they originally appeared.

Despite Emma’s supreme pride in her physical abilities, she knew she couldn’t beat Betsy in hand-to-hand combat. While she could assume her diamond form and ignore the pain, the blonde didn’t want to tip her hand again unless absolutely necessary.

Psylocke’s psychic knife flared back into existence. “You like playing with people’s minds, don’t you?”

Ok, this was looking more and more like “absolutely necessary.”

“How about a taste of your own medicine?”

Before Emma could shift, Psylocke plunged the psychic manifestation into her temple. A small, detached part of the blonde marveled at the feeling. She expected her brains to eject out of her skull before icy coldness entombed her body. However, with the Shadow King already half loose, Psylocke’s telepathic powers reasserted themselves and produced quite a unique sensation.

Neural synapses misfired, thought processes stopped, and impulses ceased. The world Emma felt so starkly--the swamp grime, the broken rib, the gloved hand choking her, the stale air--collapsed, and in moments, she was trapped in her own fractured self.

While most telepathic invaders got flattened by stiff countermeasures when testing the White Queen, Psylocke strolled right in with no effort. Shining white walls and innumerable traps were destroyed, leveled by the psychic knife. The few times the two had mentally jousted, Emma wore a idealized (a.k.a. menacing) version of her Hellfire outfit and the battleground always contained legions of adoring servants. Her heels gleamed and her voice shook the mindscape. So great was her control that the astral plane seemed to bend to her will.

This time, Betsy found the blonde kneeling, shivering, and naked underneath a spotlight.
Grandiose self imagery, mental defenses, and discipline that took years to perfect all went out the door. The White Queen looked pathetic, like a sobbing little girl who’d lost her dog.

On the other hand, Psylocke was the epitome of destruction. Shadows wrapped around her, clothing her in darkness much the same way the Crimson Dawn did. A presence extended from one of the shadows behind her, and it took the form of a nebulous, man-shape silhouette. The two moved as one, plowing through Emma’s consciousness like visions of death.

*This will be so sweet,* said Psylocke as she knelt down to caress the blonde’s cheek, *I saw your plan to stop my revenge. Ingenious, and dare I say it, a mite brave too. But graveyards are lined with brave people, and my dear, you are going to be joining them very soon.*

Her fleeting touch became a vice grip, lifting Emma by her jaw. Since this was the astral plane and vocal chords weren’t needed, Emma screamed at the mental violation. A tightening of the hand only increased the noise.

*The Shadow King needs his meal, and you are going to be the perfect breakfast spread. Isn’t that wonderful, Emma? You’re going to be eaten to death. It’s an appropriate way for someone like you to go. The Shadow King is going to take your consciousness and your power and make them mine. You’ll be a... a... ARRRGH!*

Unexpectedly, the pressure dissipated. Too weak to act, Emma could only look up and see her captor--along with the thing behind her whom she assumed as the Shadow King--wail in agony. The shadows unraveled and split open. Formerly darkened patches became flesh colored. Then, a head broke through from the left shoulder. Everywhere flesh showed up, darkness retreated.

With a sickening rip, the real Betsy, one free of demonic taint, burst forth from the her darkened counterpart.

*NO!* roared the mangled shadow.

But it was too late. Betsy--sweating, gasping, and shaking--had escaped from Belasco’s mental prison. Her shadow and the Shadow King didn’t like that very much. They disliked it even more when Emma’s mindscape flaired back to life, her defenses and mental projection of herself slowly recovering from the psychic knife.

Now clothed in her X-Men outfit, the White Queen shifted her attention to the duo who hurt her. *You’re going to pay for ruining my Gucci boots,* she said, hate permeating her every fiber.

She hurled a pulsating lance of mental energies at Psylocke’s shadow, but instead reeling from the force, the shadow absorbed it. Shortly thereafter, the wounds garnered from Betsy tearing herself from the shadow closed, and the horrible wailing degenerated into laughter.

Angered at the gesture, Emma prepared to send another bolt at the Shadow King, but Betsy stopped her.

*Don’t,* the woman urged between breaths. *Farouk gets his power from your negative emotions. Throwing mental blasts like that only feed him.*

*And feed I shall,* rumbled the Shadow King, absorbing Betsy’s silhouette. *Your friend is so full of hate and anger! You’ve pleased me greatly by coming into this mind.*

Emma cracked a smile. Finally, something went her way today. Perhaps it would even put an end to this drama. Taking a deep breath, she crystallized into her diamond form.

*****************

Kitty knew Illyana’s Soulsword could slice her even while phasing. Happened before, and the way things were going, it was bound to happen again. This Illyana was a wild animal, savagely attacking with blade and magic alike. Because of her aggressiveness, Brian teleported both Meggan and the Black Knight out of Limbo to heal them. Doctor Strange, in his ever confident voice, assured Brian that Illyana would be subdued...

Which left three people--Strange, Amanda, and Kitty herself (seeing as how Emma was in a psychic battle with Betsy)--to deal with a very insane, very violent, very dangerous former ruler of Limbo...

Which, if you think about it, wouldn’t have been so bad if all they wanted to do was subdue her in the most traditional sense, as in killing her. With Strange’s mystical abilities and Amanda’s spells, the problem wasn’t so much with killing as it was with overkilling. But, they weren’t trying to kill Illyana.

So between them not trying to kill Illyana and Illyana trying her gosh-darned hardest to kill them, the trio of heroes had problems...

Least of which was Kitty’s unfamiliarity with magical combat. True, she knew about it, observed it, even briefly took part in it, but trained battle Magnus she was not. Like the incoming fireball for instance. She knew it was an extension of the caster’s will channeled through mystical items and training.

But try as she might, she never could throw fireballs.

Kitty phased, letting the flames shoot through her and into the swamp. That was all she was good for: avoiding attacks. Her bare knuckles didn’t do any damage to Illyana thanks to her armor and demonic endurance. Trust me, she tried. Getting close enough to attack was also a big concern. The environment only had twigs and crud, but it wasn’t going to be of any use.

Or was it?

She scrounged around for a long, sharp branch. Hefting it in both hands, she tested out the improvised weapon and found it surprisingly well balanced. Then, recalling Wolverine’s lessons in stealth and ambush, Shadowcat melted into the vegetation.

On and on the fight between Strange, Magik, and Illyana raged. Illyana closed in on Strange, not allowing him time to cast any of his many spells. At the same time, she threw wild energies in Amanda’s general direction, enough to keep the woman off balance. There was a hope of Illyana tiring herself out, but after too many closes calls, a couple glancing blows, and a smattering of cuts, Strange and Magik decided they couldn’t count on that strategy.

A dual assault, unrelenting from all sides, came to the forefront, but still, Illyana wouldn’t budge. Between blasts from Strange and swordplay from Amanda, numerous wounds marked her like a checkerboard. Only none of it fazed her, and to everyone’s surprise, the injuries started healing so fast that it made Wolverine’s healing factor look human. Things went further downhill when Amanda made the observation that the longer the fight dragged on, the more Illyana resembled her Darkchylde persona--ever more violent and powerful.

Hidden behind an outcropping, Kitty waited to strike. Illyana had to be distracted and close by. Her plan was simple: sneak up on Illyana, attack while phasing the stick, and get this weird version of the Soulsword away from her. Hopefully the combination of ambush, attack, and disarming would give Doctor Strange enough time to do what he had to do.

There! An opportunity!

Amanda charged while Strange hurled a jet of fire. Concentration split, Illyana didn’t notice Kitty dart from her hiding place and shove her weapon into her sword arm’s shoulder. In fact, the demon didn’t even feel any pain until Kitty stopped phasing, leaving the wood impaled in her body. Leaving nothing to chance, Kitty let go of her weapon, grabbed Illyana’s forearm from behind, and knocked the Soulsword loose.

A few choice moves had the demon falling to the ground. Wasting no time, Kitty jumped on Illyana’s back while using the stick (still protruding out of her shoulder) as leverage.

Amidst the growling and roaring and screaming, Illyana’s eyes suddenly cleared. Her features regained their human appearance. Even the Soulsword she wielded fizzled out of existence.

Kitty gasped at the change. “Illyana?”

“Kitty,” came a familiar, fragile voice.

Emotions bottled up since hearing of Belasco’s newest scheme bubbled to the surface. The gravity, the wrongness of attacking a friend crushed Kitty’s barriers. The shred of hope the woman held out for Illyana grew, buoyed by one single word being uttered. For all of the fight, Kitty didn’t let the memories of Illyana and Betsy stop her from helping Brian, but now with it over, she couldn’t help but sag, exhausted by the emotional effort to separate between friend and foe.

“Kitty,” Illyana whispered again.

As tears threatened to fall , Kitty released the woman from her hold. “Illyana...”

“Big mistake.”

The strike happened too quickly for either Amanda or Strange to shout a warning. One second Kitty kneeled over Illyana; the next, Shadowcat lay on the ground, blood spilling from the slash across her stomach. Her vision blurred, but Kitty made out a blood-soaked Illyana looming over her, branch removed from shoulder and tainted Soulsword in hand. Kitty couldn’t be sure, but Illyana seemed to be laughing as she raised her blade for the finishing blow.

Kitty knew Illyana’s Soulsword could slice her even while phasing. Too hurt to move, too weak to intercept the blow, Kitty waited for death to come. Funny how after battling so many supervillains, interdimensional threats, and otherworldly creatures, she would die at her best friend’s hands.

From somewhere close by, Doctor Strange’s thundering voice spoke words of power. They sent shivers up Kitty’s spine moments before she blacked out.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 4

Title: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Otherworld

Chapter 3: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Otherworld

Betsy liked diamonds. On her tenth birthday, her father gave her a shining, gleaming diamond necklace, her most treasured possession. Throughout her tumultuous life, she’d strived to find diamonds that equaled or surpassed the luster of that gift. Before the elder Braddock passed away, he told his daughter about the necklace’s mystical origins and how it was a one of its kind item. Thus, she failed in her search, but the failure didn’t matter. After all, Betsy liked diamonds.

She just never knew that diamonds would be her salvation one of these days.

As Amahl Farouk the Shadow King prepared to feed, Emma Grace Frost activated her secondary mutation. Thanks to a genetic flaw, whenever Emma turned to diamond, she became psychically mute, unable to access her powers or allow others to invade her mind. Also, her new form blunted her sensations and emotions, stripping her ability to feel. Things that normally earned her ire slid off of her, comments that incensed her went unheard, and immense pressure fell to the wayside.

Emma’s transformation cut Farouk off from the outside world where he drew his power from. Her emotionless state prevented the Shadow King from feeding off of her. Her psymute mind froze all telepathic activity. The change in Emma’s mindscape manifested itself as diamond encrusting everyone and everything.

Emma had Betsy and Farouk trapped.

But Emma’s form wasn’t perfect--see aforementioned genetic flaw. She also had never attempted her transformation while others were inside her head. The analytical part of her, the only one active at the moment, looked upon this as a learning experience.

*Emma,* Betsy called out. *Emma! Can you hear me?*

*Interesting. You can still communicate.*

Interesting indeed. Being psymute didn’t hinder Betsy’s words. Maybe it was because Betsy really was in Emma’s head and not trying to get in from the outside. Maybe it was because of another genetic flaw. Maybe it was because she continued to evolve after her mutation.

But that line of thought was destined for another time.

*Emma, can you get me to Farouk? I can harm him if he’s weakened.*

Another interesting thought. *How do you know he is being weakened as we speak?*

*I saw everything when I came into your mind.*

A beat of silence. *Everything?*

*Yes, everything from your miserable childhood to what you want to accomplish with this plan of yours. You’re hoping to cut him off from his power source and starve him. And I’m telling you, it HAS to be working. The Shadow King needs a great deal of negative emotions to sustain him, so if he isn’t in contact with other minds, he’s starving.*

*If you saw everything, then you know I cannot access my telepathic powers. Us conversing is already an anomaly.*

*But you haven’t done this before! You were just thinking that before I called out to you!*

*You... you heard me thinking to myself?*

Betsy did her best approximation of a scowl, but being surrounded by diamond made the attempt moot. *Do you want to be stuck like this forever? We have to act if we want to survive. Every second we waste is another second Farouk has to try and escape.*

*Fine, Elisabeth. What is your suggestion?*

*We can merge our abilities so I can navigate through your mind. Hopefully, you can maintain your form while I attack the Shadow King.*

*That is only wishful thinking.*

*No. Jean and I, we tried something like that when she took some of my telepathy and gave me her telekinetic powers. We used the power gathered from Farouk and the Phoenix to combine our consciousness then separate ourselves out.*

*We don’t have the energies of two cosmic beings at our disposal,* Emma scoffed. *At the moment, we only have one, and he is not cooperating.*

*We don’t need that much energy because this won’t take long... if it works.*

*And what are the risks?*

*Our minds never separating from each other? Both of us becoming brain dead? I don’t know. I’ve only tried this once, and the only time I did, I succeeded.*

If Emma could feel emotions, she’d guess she’d be feeling annoyance right now. Yes, annoyance, right up there with uncertainty and fear. What was better? To be the prison of the Shadow King or his mid-day snack? How about none of the above? Choices, choices...

*Do what you must,* Emma acquiesced.

Not like Betsy wasn’t going to try with or without Emma’s consent. For too long she’d lived under Farouk’s influence. For too long she’d been a mere hanger on. For too long she’d been deprived of peace, the one thing she thought she’d get when she died. For too long she’d watch that... that... thing use her against her own brother.

She walked a bitter road. Belasco entrapped her soul with his magic, shoved her into a demon’s body, then tortured her for what seemed like an eternity. Her boundless rage fueled the Shadow King’s power, allowing him to slip past her control. In turn, Belasco fed Farouk, making him cloud her mind and submit to the demon’s will.

No more. Brian banished Belasco. Emma had Farouk trapped. Now, Betsy needed draw on the remaining telepathic abilities Jean left behind to put her bane away forever.

Easy. Like killing an elephant with a butter knife.

Betsy tried to find some part of the White Queen vulnerable to mental abilities. They could communicate, so that meant something somewhere allowed a measure of psychic manipulation. If she had more power and infinite time, she might figure out everything, but working under these conditions amounted to searching for a needle in a haystack while handcuffed, blindfolded, and drugged. Basically, in a word, impossible.

Then again, X-Men lived on the ragged edge of impossible.

*Think,* Betsy mumbled to herself. When Jean did it, she entered Betsy’s mind and deconstructed a small part of herself--in essence, her telekinetic powers--sending it to replace the bonds which held Farouk. To reform herself, Jean had to take the aforementioned excised bonds--which was most of Betsy’s telepathy--and claim it as her own. During the exchange, Betsy felt the enormity of Jean’s powers and saw the Phoenix burning through her, waiting for the right time to rise to its full strength.

And for that moment, Betsy felt like the Phoenix was part of her too. It seared her soul, almost like it wanted to claim her, to gift her with its all-consuming power. Later on, Jean would say that while Betsy saw the Phoenix, the redhead herself experienced the burden of the Shadow King’s presence. Wanting to escape, she pooled all the energies present and separated herself from Betsy. In the process, both women collapsed, Farouk’s incessant mental shrieks quieted, and the Phoenix became silent.

Hoping to make progress, Betsy began to deconstruct her mental image. Her uniform rippled, eventually becoming a swirl of pink that enveloped her body. She sent the energies outward and was rewarded with a shudder of surprise from Emma.

*What are you doing?* gasped the blonde.

*I don’t know, but I’ll tell you when I’m done.*

Unable to feel those energies anymore but encouraged by her host’s reaction, Betsy deconstructed more of herself. The diamond surrounding her moved in, occupying the space her mental image formerly held. Soon, her entire being became a nebulous cloud, and with an imagined deep breath, Betsy spread her consciousness into her host.

Between the layers of diamonds lay tiny corridors snaking through Emma’s mind. They led to each facet of her life, her experiences. On her way in, Betsy had viewed all of the White Queen’s memories, but the nature of her psychic knife masked the emotions behind the memories, her interaction restricted to what she described as a fast-forward screening of her victims’ life.

Now, she felt all of Emma. Felt every joy, every pain, every death of her student, every triumph of her company.

Betsy cried with Emma when the blonde’s family turned against her brother. Betsy cackled with Emma when the blonde held the world by its throat when she was the Hellfire Club’s White Queen. For lack of better terminology, Betsy was Emma.

The reverse was also true.

With a detached eye, Emma saw Betsy’s hurt at the hands of Belasco. Emma saw Betsy’s dying moments in Hank’s arms. Emma saw Betsy’s happy family at Braddock manor. Emma saw Betsy’s first lover, Tom, being murdered. Emma saw Betsy’s joy at taking over the Captain Britain mantle.

The blonde found all the scenes intriguing, but a small part of her dreaded her emotional response when she’d eventually have to shift back to her flesh and blood body. After all, Emma had seen one case of total psychic integration before, and the results... well, they just weren’t good.

Trepidation aside, she felt confident. Free even. Like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She reveled in the extra presence, which as the seconds wore on, didn’t seem to be a second presence anymore.

Funny. Her diamond form precluded her from emotions, but here she was now, feeling. All of it... so amazing to have suddenly lived two lives, to suddenly know so much more, to be so much more powerful than she was.

Telepathy flooded her. Telepathy wrapped her in its comforting and familiar arms. Telepathy formerly closed to... Betsy? Or was it Emma? No matter. The warm, soothing hum of other minds buzzed again. The imposing barriers protecting her erected themselves through her diamond laced mindscape. She heard Brian’s faraway thoughts.

She heard the Shadow King’s curses from inside his prison.

*Damn you, mutant!* the formless thing yelled. He stretched and warped and wrangled, but he couldn’t break free. For every act of struggle, he grew weaker, his mental manifestation losing cohesion.

*You hurt me,* said Betsy and Emma, their voices separate but spoken together. *There is no mercy for you.*

Mental attacks would only strengthen him. He had no physical form. Unfortunately for him, he was in her mind and without a foothold, let alone an advantage.

She drained energy from him. This wasn’t a siphoning or borrowing but rather a malicious, forceful theft of energy, ripping it from him chunks at a time. The Shadow King existed as pure psychic form, and for the first time in his existence, he’d been trapped with no way to recharge. His ferocious yells degenerated into pitiful cries for help, and then oddly enough, into pleas for mercy.

As his body shrunk, his diamond prison shrunk with him, crushing him, suffocating him, reminding him of his impending doom.

The voice, now a single voice blended with Emma’s sultry enunciation and Betsy’s British accent, sounded from all corners: *I’ve robbed you of you. Now, I will destroy your awareness and your consciousness. Then, I will use your energies--your body--to make me strong. Die, you insidious piece of shit, and don’t come back.*

Silence. The Shadow King disappeared, his energy gone, consumed by Betsy and Emma. What remained of him was a wealth of unidentifiable power thundering through her mind, and she was happy. Genuinely happy.

Revenge. Power. Knowledge. Excitement. Victory. All in a day’s work, but even the best days had to end.

The diamond lattice shifted, returning to its former state--a darkened no-place with one spotlight. Underneath the spotlight, a mixture of Betsy and Emma stood. Long blonde hair framed Asian eyes. Psylocke’s X-Men outfit remained, only, it was white. A white caped draped over her shoulders.

Suddenly, she blurred. Two hazy forms replaced one. The pair became clearer, sharper, until coming to focus.

Betsy collapsed. Emma stumbled but remained standing. Both clutched their heads in pain and exhaustion.

Without preamble, the mind link fizzled, returning the two to their physical bodies. Emma’s eyes flashed open in shock, the gamut of emotions her diamond form phased out now hammering against her. She couldn’t breathe or think. Unable to handle the mental overload, Emma screamed.

Betsy fainted face first into the swamp.

*****************

Kitty blinked. Ok, so maybe she wasn’t dead.

Amanda’s face popped out from the edge of Kitty’s hazy vision. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Kitty groaned. “How am I suppose to be feeling?”

Amanda disappeared for a second. “Hey everyone, she’s awake!” She reappeared, this time wearing a grin. “The Doc patched you up himself, so you’ll be up and around in no time.”

One question ran through Kitty’s mind. “What about Illyana?”

The grin faltered. “Not so good,” Amanda admitted, running a hand through her hair. “Stephen undid Belasco’s magic just before she got a chance to hurt you even more, but her body’s falling apart because she wants to go back to her afterlife. She also wants to talk to you though. When you feel up to it...”

Of course she felt up to it. When Illyana needed her, Kitty was there. Her presence might not have been enough, but damn it, she was there. She’d always be there.

Wobbling to her feet, the brunette steadied herself on the... bed? “Where are we?”

“My home,” Amanda replied, offering her arm for support. “Don’t worry. We’re safe here.”

Mystical baubles lined the green marble walls. Torches lit every corner of the room. Scents of all sorts wafted through the air. Everything looked either mysteriously archaic or tastefully medieval. In fewer words, the place looked like it belonged to a magician.

The bedroom opened up into a large, ornate space. Stone carvings, strange statues, ancient tomes, and various blades lent it a hallowed aura. Amanda must’ve did her more complex spells here. Apparently, the room also doubled as a nice reception area. Meggan, Brian, the Black Knight, and Doctor Strange hovered around Illyana, who lay on a stone table. Meanwhile, across the way, Emma--arms crossed, eyes glowering--stood by Betsy’s body which occupied another slab of rock.

Whatever pissed Emma off could wait, Kitty decided.

“Illyana,” she called out, forcing a smile to her face.

Said woman turned her head to the voice, sighing in relief. The dark circles around her eyes made them look like they’d sunken into her skull. Pale lips strained with effort to produce some sort of positive expression, but they failed. Without her demonic features, Illyana looked like a frail, frightened girl, too small to support the armor she still wore.

Kitty broke away from Amanda, stumbling the last few feet to Illyana on her own. She took the blonde’s hand and squeezed it, reaffirming her friend’s existence to herself. Everyone else took a cue, stepping back and giving the two women a little privacy. Kitty nodded in thanks to the group as they carried on with meaningless tasks and idle chit-chat.

“I’m so sorry, Kitty,” whispered Illyana.

“Don’t say that. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I do. I’m sorry for hurting you and-”

“No, Belasco made you do it. I know you’d never hurt me.”

The blonde closed her eyes. “But I’m going to hurt you again.”

“How?” asked Kitty, shocked. “Why?”

“I don’t want to be here. Piotr was with me. My parents were with me. I was happy, and Belasco took me away from them again. He gave me this body and... and... it hurts to be here because I’m not happy anymore.”

She tightened her hold on Kitty’s hand. “I’m leaving,” she sighed. “And I’m sorry because I know seeing me like this again is going to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kitty, tears running down her cheek, “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“You don’t have be strong all the time, Kitty. I know how you feel; I feel the same way. Maybe some day, some time in the future...”

The words trailed off. Doctor Strange moved to Kitty’s side, his voice comforting as he spoke.

“One of the hardest things in life is letting go. Illyana just wants to make sure you can accept that before she passes on. While we may fear death, it is not the end. You two will meet again, and hopefully, next time will be on better terms.”

What could anyone say to that? There was nothing in the world Kitty would begrudge Illyana of, but simply letting go felt like such an empty gesture. Nonetheless, Illyana wanted Kitty’s acceptance of her death. Her slightly pleading, laboring tone hinted their friendship was what made Illyana hang on for as long as she had.

“Live,” Illyana mouthed quietly, “Piotr and I... we see you all the time and you don’t live...”

She coughed, air rushing out of her lungs and failing to come back despite her best efforts. Strange chanted in Latin as an eerie purple light passed from him to Illyana.

“A spell,” the Sorcerer Supreme whispered, “it eases the pain.”

The woman’s strained face relaxed, her coughing eased, and the crushing grip on Kitty’s hand loosened. Serenity descended upon her, and the smile which earlier couldn’t form blossomed. The hurt disappeared.

Finally, her eyes glazed over, open and unseeing.

Kitty slumped. She let go of Illyana’s cooling hand. Meggan tried to offer some condolences, but the brunette stopped her.

“Thank you,” she said, backing away from Illyana’s body. “But I... I just need a little space. I’ll be out for a few minutes.”

Without waiting for responses, she phased through the walls, off to another part of the stronghold. Distraught over her friend’s reaction, Meggan called after Kitty, even going so far as to chase her. Amanda halted the blonde with a shake of her head.

“Let her go. I can watch her from anywhere in Limbo, so she’ll be safe.”

“But Kitty is our friend and she needs us!”

Although he hated to contradict his wife, Brian concurred with Amanda. “Kitty’s also a private person, luv. She’ll come to us when she’s ready.”

Emma’s bitter words sliced through the soothing, sensitive atmosphere. “Interesting how you satisfied the kitty cat with half truths.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Brian, puzzled.

Unimpressed, the White Queen leveled her most intimidating glare at each person present. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Braddock. I’ve read the files on Excalibur--you and your lovely wife have the ability to save Illyana. Where are the spells? The contacts? One doesn’t rise to your station of power without some advantages and friends. Speaking of friends, Doctor Strange himself could’ve easily preserved Illyana’s life. Xavier’s dossier of his sometime astral chess buddy has enough proof of that.” Her voice lowered, accusing. “Why hold back?”

The Black Knight rose to the occasion, stepping in front of his friends to defend them. “We did all we could,” he barked. “Magic isn’t simple and Belasco isn’t a simple villain! How dare you accuse us of leaving one of our own to die?!”

“Dane,” Doctor Strange said as he pulled the man back. “Ms. Frost has a good point. Her concern is certainly grounded in fact, and as such, we must address them as best we can.” He turned back to Emma, smiling apologetically. “Dane is a very passionate man and doesn’t fully measure all of his words. I am sorry for his outburst.”

“The grown man has a mouth of his own. Unless mommy is still changing his diapers, let him apologize for himself.”

The Black Knight almost lunged at Emma, but reason--along with Brian’s steady grip--reined him in. He settled down and resorted to scoffing. If Emma wasn’t so keyed up, she’d laugh at his childish behavior.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” she said, tapping her foot.

“Simply put,” explained Doctor Strange, “she didn’t want to live anymore. Yes, we could have helped her, prevented her from dying, but she didn’t want that. Illyana is already dead and passed on to her afterlife where she is happy. It was her choice to live on or return to her blissful state: she chose the latter.”

“I didn’t hear anyone pointing that out to her when she woke up. I didn’t hear anyone saying ‘We can help you.’ The poor girl probably didn’t even know she could be saved, and you didn’t feel it necessary to tell her otherwise. In that situation, her choosing death was not a choice but rather the only option revealed to her.”

Brian wedged himself into the debate to prevent it from escalating. “No need to get chippy now. Kitty might’ve been out like a light, but you were there, Emma. Illyana only wanted to go back and she made no mystery of it.”

“I didn’t hear a word of encouragement for her to stay,” Emma pointed out. “I don’t have to be an empath to know all of you are holding something back.”

“We’ve done this plenty of times,” said Brian, “After all, Belasco did get his legion this way. Every single one of those spirits Belasco corrupted wanted to return to their afterlives after we freed them. Their place is not with the living anymore, and they know it.”

“And the spirits must return to their rightful places,” added Dane. “Their absence shifted many things in the realms outside of earth, and we are just putting it right.”

Emma frowned. “So the ugly truth comes out. Not only is letting these people die again is humane, but it’s also a convenient solution to whatever rocked your Otherworld boat.”

Instead of accepting the bait, Brian calmed himself, putting his arms at his sides in a most unthreatening way. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, you won’t get it. Tell me, why are you saying these things?”

“Your sister doesn’t want to go back, Mr. Braddock; she desperately wants to live. Her afterlife consisted of seeing Bishop then being kidnapped by Belasco. Now, she’s unconscious and probably won’t wake up for a while, so in her best interests, I want to know if you’re going to treat her like you did Illyana.”

“How do you know this?! You don’t know anything!” asked the Black Knight, disbelief in his voice.

“Dane!” Meggan chided. “Hush! You’re awfully headstrong today.”

Fixing her icy stare at Dane, Emma said, “I know more than about her than you ever will. Our minds melded together during the fight with the Shadow King. So before you go around twirling your attitude around me again, check that mouth of yours or you might find yourself on the painful end of your little toothpick.”

“Ladies, gentlemen,” interrupted Doctor Strange, “I believe our conflict is easily resolved. Ms. Frost does not approve of our methods. Brian and Meggan, I don’t think you want to leave Betsy’s side at the moment. So, I propose this compromise...”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 5

Title: Of Babes and Bullies

Chapter 4: Of Babes and Bullies

“... I hope you don’t mind the arrangement, Charles.”

Professor Xavier chuckled at the astral projection of Doctor Strange. “Of course not, Stephen. My gratitude for returning Elisabeth to us. Rest assured that we’ll do everything in our power to make her recovery as swift and comfortable as possible. Oh, and when did you say Brian and Meggan would be here?”

“Tomorrow at the latest. They have some loose ends to tie up here first.”

“Very good. We’ll be ready for them.”

“Till next time, Charles. Perhaps we can finish that chess match then.”

“Indeed.”

Strange disappeared, leaving the Professor in his office by himself. With a great sigh, he massaged the bridge of his nose. Just one crisis after the next, wasn’t it? The day began with Sinister and his Marauders attacking Scott and Jean while they enjoyed a breakfast off the school grounds. It ended with Sage, Gambit, and Logan disintegrating half the Marauders, Illyana demolishing the mansion gates, Sinister almost reducing the Blackbird to a scrap pile via a bomb (which Bishop alertly disposed of), and Elisabeth Braddock coming back from the dead.

Add to that Hank and Kitty were here, Emma Frost was suddenly more touchy than usual, the rulers of the Otherworld were showing up soon, and well, the man know as Charles Xavier needed a vacation. Bad. His poor heart couldn’t take much more excitement.

Then his phone rang.

“Xavier speaking.”

From the other end of the line came, “Everything is set, old friend. Are you ready?”

“Soon. There’s been a number of new developments here...”

“Come to Genosha when you have it sorted out. You know the place.”

“I do. Be careful yourself. I have a bad premonition about this.”

“Charles, since when has the future been kind?”

The line went dead.

“Great,” Xavier sighed.

Hoping to visit Psylocke, he made for the door. Just before he got out, he backed up to the mini-bar, grabbed a whiskey flask from the sea of drinks, and took a slight swing of it.

“Sean was right. It does take the edge off.”

He tucked it in his shirt pocket and headed to the elevators. The party, so to speak, was in full tilt by the time he got down there. Thanks to a slight mind trick, nobody noticed the Professor when he wheeled himself in. From two floors up, he already heard Rogue’s booming voice and wanted to know the cause without any sugar coating.

Though it pained him to think, even his most adult students could act like children when they put their minds to it.

“... and how do ya know whether ‘not she’s out to hurt us?” Rogue yelled. “Plenty o’ people have come to us for help and we’ve never turn anyone away without at least hearing their story! Ah dunno ‘bout anyone else, but if there’s a chance that it’s her, we can’t afford to just throw her out! We owe it to Betsy!”

“Damn it,” said Bobby Drake, slamming his fist onto a table. “Rogue, you haven’t been here since the beginning. You haven’t seen all the crap that gets thrown at this mansion. If we’d fallen for this routine like you are now, we would’ve been dead by Sinister’s or Mystique’s hands long ago! Get rid of her and say goodbye to another potential headache. Scott, Jean, back me up on this one. We’re stretched thin as it is! We can’t afford to have anyone baby-sit her!”

Gambit, none too happy with the conversation’s direction, placed himself between Rogue and Bobby. “You just went too far, mon ami. We’d been here long enough to see a’plenty. Wha ‘bout Bishop? Or Sage? Or Frost? Or Rogue? Or me? Half da people in dis room wouldn’t be here if you’d act da way you talk. The X-Men’s always been ‘bout helpin’ mutants an’ we do a fine job because we ain’t picky about who gets our help. And dis is Betsy too. Ain’t like you don’t know da woman.”

“Cajun’s right,” Wolverine grunted. “Be a real shame if that really was Betts in there and we’d threw the book at her.”

“Everyone,” Scott boomed, silencing the room, “Speculation will get us nowhere. Xorn, how are Hank and Betsy?”

The masked man glanced at the computer monitor. “Dr. McCoy should be coming to at any time. Ms. Braddock is still an anomaly. I’ve never seen someone with her physiology. She has no vital signs, but yet, her body moves and occasionally speaks, apparently like one caught in a fitful slumber. I’ve injected her with some sedatives to prevent any violent movements or other unfortunate acts.”

“Jean? Any insight on Betsy?”

“It’s her,” the redhead quietly answered. Her eyes met Charles’ and he nodded. Given she was the only person in the room he couldn’t shield himself from, he felt it appropriate for Jean to end his eavesdropping session.

“Professor,” Jean greeted.

A circle of startled X-Men made room around him. “On my way down, I heard some debate about our guest,” he began. “Rest assured that we have more than enough manpower to sufficiently neutralize her should the need arise. Seeing as she is one of our own, the matter becomes how we can help Elisabeth through her trying times, not whether or not we will help.”

Bobby had the decency to at least look apologetic. Scott cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“It’s settled then. We’ll continue monitoring Betsy, but someone will be down here at all times in case she wakes up. I’m looking for volunteers, each doing a four hour shift. Any takers for the first rotation?”

“Me.”

Storm, quiet until now, stepped to the forefront. “I can also organize the rest of the schedule while I’m here.”

The meeting disband afterwards. Many stayed and milled about to check on their old friends and volunteer their time. Some, like Bobby, made themselves scarce. Jean nabbed her husband by the arm and gently pulled him to the Professor.

“We need to talk in private,” she said to the two men.

“Why?” asked a confused Scott. “Is something wrong with Betsy?”

“No... it’s... difficult to explain.”

*****************

Logan climbed onto the small, dusty balcony. Some of Storm’s many plants made their home here (a temporary arrangement, of course), but for the most part, this outcropping qualified as barren. It used to be connected to a guestroom, but after one of the mansion’s frequent destructions, the construction team sealed it off, perhaps in an attempt to do less work. The difficult access was exactly why it was one of Logan’s favorite thinking locales. Only Storm, Warren, and Rogue knew he frequented this place, and the three respected his privacy.

Tonight though, he didn’t come to think. He came because he followed a scent. The subject of his search, Kitty Pryde, had her back turned to him, but before he could get a word off, she spoke.

“Peter used to come up here, you know.”

So much for this being a private spot.

“Hmph,” grunted Logan as he walked to Kitty’s side. “How’d he do it?”

“Took the stairs up to the roof and hopped down.”

Logan glanced at the distance from roof to balcony--ten foot drop. Peter was a generous six something, so hopping down wasn’t an issue. Now, leaving on the other hand--twenty foot drop from here to ground. Not deadly, but still...

“How’d he get off the balcony?”

Kitty couldn’t repress a giggle. “He turned into his steel form and jumped.”

“Must’ve made a big boom.”

“Scared the living daylights out of me the first time,” she laughed at the fond memory. “My room was just downstairs, and one night, I heard this huge thud outside my window. I thought the mansion was under attack! So I phased outside in my pajamas, and low and behold, there was Peter brushing some grass off himself. My heart never raced so fast!”

As Kitty’s laughter petered off, they cast their eyes to the sky and watched the stars together.

Logan lit a cigar. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

The tradition started long ago when Kitty was a raw, bumbling recruit in the X-Men. For all of Logan’s gruff exterior, he had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies. He took Kitty under his wing, and his first lesson was teaching her to be quiet. The purpose wasn’t to just shut her up, as Kitty often complained about, but it was also an exercise in observation. One could defeat frayed thoughts and tumbling emotions with enough patience, knowledge, and solitude. In those days, exuberance and naiveté were Kitty’s worst enemies.

Now, the enemies were of a darker, sadder nature.

This companionable silence used to greatly comfort Kitty, and strange enough, Logan didn’t mind her presence when he wanted to be alone. Time and time again Kitty sought out Logan to have a few of these moments. Today, the roles got reversed.

“Heard you saw Illyana,” he said between puffs.

The brunette dropped her head down and sighed. “I saw her die again, Logan.”

“Take it from me, watchin’ others go the second time ‘round doesn’t make it easier.”

“But I don’t want any more of this!” she yelled to the night sky. “I don’t want to see any more of my friends die!”

Instead of being sympathetic, Logan took another deep drag of his cigar. “People die, darlin’. You could be a normal girl with a normal life, but that won’t change the fact that people die. Livin’s the greatest health hazard. Sooner or later, normal or not, you’re gonna be buryin’ the ones you love.”

Kitty glared at her friend. “Then how do you do this, Logan? You’ve been fighting for Charles’ dream long before me, and right now, I just want to lay down and die. You... you’re always here, year after year, death after death...”

“I ain’t fightin’ for Chuck’s dream,” replied Logan. “I’m fightin’ for mine. It don’t make life any easier, but at least I know why I go on. Every one of those people gone--Mariko, Peter, Moria--makes me wanna stop their fate from fallin’ onto anyone else. So, I get up every day, put on my boots, n’ do what I need to do.”

“Always fighting the good fight.”

“No,” he interrupted, tapping the ash off the tip of his cigar, “Fightin’ my fight, doin’ what I’m good at. If it’s one thing I know, the world’ll never leave well-enough alone. I’ve tried leaving it all behind, but something somewhere always comes back to bite my ass.”

“Sounds a bit like Magneto’s broken record,” whispered Kitty.

For the first time, Logan looked into Kitty’s eyes. “Man’s ideas aren’t all wrong,” he admitted, “He just has a flamin’ funny way o’ makin’ them happen. Hate to sound cliche, darlin’, but nothing’s free. Every happy moment has a sad story behind it. Can’t hide under a rock n’ expect the best to come to you.”

“Are you calling me a coward for quitting the X-Men?”

“No. You’re one of the bravest people I know, Pryde. Takes real courage to walk a mile in your shoes and not end up lookin’ like something outta a meat grinder. You’re grievin’ for the dead and worryin’ for the live. Last I checked, that’s normal. I’m just answering your question ‘bout how I do this day in and day out.” He paused, then grumbled, “Wouldn’t mind hearin’ a few ideas on makin’ the pain go away cuz I got no answers for that myself.”

Kitty let a few tears escape while Logan put out his cigar and threw the butt off the balcony. In the flash of an eye, she had Wolverine in a desperate, crushing hug, sobs stored from earlier in the day pouring out of her. He returned the embrace, patting the back of her head soothingly. He’d never admit it, but Logan not only had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies, he also had one for crying women.

“Let it out, Kitty,” he encouraged. “Hurt like yours does no good being bottled up.”

“I miss them,” she cried. “I miss them so much...”

*****************

Emma couldn’t sleep. The second Magik teleported them back into the mansion (and incidentally into the group of returning X-Men), she feigned exhaustion, snapped at everyone who wanted to talk to her, and rushed to her room for sleep. Fatigue wasn’t much a factor in her escape--the real reason was confusion. For extend periods of time on Limbo, she found herself thinking like Betsy, even remembering Betsy’s memories.

Case in point: on the way up to her room, Emma almost took a wrong turn toward Psylocke’s old room. Only by the slimmest of margins did she steer herself back on course. Oh, and even when away in another dimension, Emma swore she felt Brian’s consciousness. More disturbing was the urge to hug the man and comfort him, telling him she was fine and he didn’t need to worry.

That freaked Emma out. Other convoluted snippets added to the freak out factor.

Emma distinctly remembered never sniffing the scent of flesh smoldering with hellfire, but yet she knew the gut-wrenching odor. Smelled remarkably like one of Remy LeBeau’s inedible, Cajun kitchen creations, only less spicy. What about the horror of having the Shadow King live in your head? His constant hammering against his mental prison, his incessant yammering about revenge, and the fear of relaxing for just a split second because he could take advantage of any weakness--Emma recalled it like Jubilee’s second semester grades (which were quite pitiful). And while Emma suffered many wounds in her interesting life, none stacked up to feeling a sword run through her gut, puncturing stomach and spine, filling her insides with blood, then choking as said blood rush up her esophagus.

Honestly, if she ever met Vargas, she’d put the bastard’s brain through a blender.

Then there were her own rebellious memories, those she spent much of her young adult life repressing, boxing neatly, then burying under the largest mound of overwhelming emotions she could find. All of them came back like she’d only run away from home yesterday. Her father’s stinging slap burned her cheek. Her dear mother’s numbed, glazed over eyes watched her but never saw her thanks to all the drugs she took. The dirty dishes she washed, the men who tried to take advantage of her, and the people like Astrid Bloom and Ian Kendall who deadened her heart--memories she’d taken great pains to never see again, but here they were, larger than life and absolutely ruthless.

She needed to do something about this. What though? What to do, what to do...

Crying felt like the most natural response, but Emma Grace Frost did not cry. Screaming? No, she’d done enough of that for one day. Curling into a fetal position was harder than it looked, especially when she’d gotten worked over by Betsy. Laughing hysterically never cured anything, and in Emma’s experience, never made her feel any better. Meditation? Please, what she wanted was a dulling of the pain, not a full introspection.

Emma peeled herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom. Warm water, tiny bubbles, absolute privacy--perfect to soothe the body and refresh the mind. Her entirely too expensive and now ruined outfit got thrown into a corner while she ran the water. Minutes later, she submerged herself into a fragrant and luxurious tub. She watched the water vapor dance, curling and rising until the wisps disappeared. Her muscles relaxed, her eyes grew heavy, and...

Damn it. She still sensed Brian Braddock. She still remembered Adrienne’s betrayal of their sweet brother, Christian, and his near suicide. She still felt Matsu’o’s caresses and Spiral’s manipulation. Damn it all to hell. Mood soured, Emma toweled herself off, threw on her silk robe, and slipped out her door.

2:30 AM at the mansion. A little telepathy told her everyone slept except for Bobby Drake and Bishop. The former sprawled himself out on the couch and watched 80’s action movies while the latter busied himself cleaning his guns in the... the... medlab? Yes, and he had Betsy under guard thanks to a royal decree by Scott “Holier Than Thou” Summers.

Bishop’s presence annoyed her. Was that how they treated their own? Like a prisoner? No matter--he wouldn’t be a factor. With startling ease, she wormed into his mind and put him to sleep, making him collapse onto his impromptu workbench. No one noticed and no alarms sounded. She used the stairs, and in no time, stood over Betsy.

Someone had unplugged the heart monitor. So much advanced technology and none of it was hooked up to Betsy. Only the IV dripped away. One brief touch on the woman’s wrist revealed no pulse. A minute’s time showed no breathing.

But Emma knew Betsy lived. The psychic bond between them still existed, and occasionally, flashes of disturbing dreams would hit Emma. They were almost worse than the unwanted memories.

Under this assault of images and emotions, Emma made her decision.

She admired Betsy for her determination. All too often she’d seen prideful people break, but Elisabeth Braddock had a rare stubbornness possessed by few--Emma considered herself one of those few. Yet, underneath the sure stride and icy blood lurked a girl who hadn’t found her place in the world, who despite being full-grown had serious questions about her identity. No one understood her problems, no one could help her with herself, and even when surrounded by others, she was alone. Burned too many times to count, she forged on ahead, sure that whatever the future held could only be an improvement over the present, only the future held new lows. Emma knew the feeling well, she herself a repeated victim of this cycle. With their combined experiences, the disappointment, anger, and helplessness multiplied, and she knew Betsy didn’t need the extra pain.

Gracefully, Emma touched Betsy’s cheek. She considered the woman beautiful, inside and out, and Emma hated spoiling beauty. Emma’s memories, especially her time in the Hellfire Club, weren’t a bowl of cherries, and Emma wished none of those thoughts on anyone else, least of all Betsy. The woman had a tough road ahead of her, and she needed all her strength if she wanted to come out intact.

People accused Emma of many things, but none ever accused the White Queen of not cleaning up after herself. She made a mess in Betsy’s mind, and she would put this right.

Her fingers inched up, brushing from Betsy’s cheek to her temple. She breathed in deeply and prepared herself to-

Suddenly, Betsy’s hand shot out and grabbed Emma’s wrist. Their punch-drunk eyes met, sparkling in the eerie, computer monitor glow of the medlab.

“You were going to mind wipe me.”

No accusation. No condescension. Just a statement of fact.

“Yes.”

No remorse. No guilt. Just Emma.

Betsy sat up but didn’t let go of the wrist. Nose to nose with the blonde, she asked, “What’s the point?”

“It’s too much,” Emma quietly said, “We have enough problems ourselves. Forgetting everything would be easiest on us.”

“What about you?”

“I’d mind wipe myself after I finished with you.”

Unlike plenty of foolhardy X-Men, Emma didn’t view retreat as cowardice. If you didn’t have to deal with it any more, Emma considered the problem solved. Sometimes, the best solution to a problem was running away and never letting it find you again.

Wouldn’t retreat working swimmingly in this situation? Tuck all those nasty memories away, rip apart the remnants of the psychic integration, sweep the tight little package under the proverbial rug, and go on with life. No mess, no fuss.

“You’re afraid,” said Betsy, leaning infinitesimally closer, “You don’t like others seeing you for anything less than the unapproachable, untouchable White Queen.”

The words stunned Emma. Out of the goodness of her heart, she went to calm Betsy’s mind. Have no doubts about it, Betsy needed solace--whatever Emma felt reflected itself on Betsy. Her fitful unconsciousness proved the vastness of her pain.

As she yanked her wrist away, Emma’s eyes narrowed. “I come here to help you and this is the thanks I get?”

Unfazed, Betsy stood and forced Emma to back away. “You have my thanks, but you can’t say you’re only doing this to make our lives easier. Our minds fused, Emma. I know you like I know myself. There’s a part of you that’s furious because I don’t see the invincible Emma Grace Frost. It’s the same part that bristles when you can’t break through another telepath’s shields.”

“This isn’t about me...”

“Yes it is. I don’t think any less of you because of what I’ve seen in your mind. In fact, I think you’re one of the strongest, most loving, most kind-hearted individuals I know. There’s few people who can take the losses you have and still find the will to devote themselves to others, but here you are, teaching at the school of a former enemy so you can better the lives of children. You’re not doing this to prove your daddy wrong or to show Xavier how to really teach mutants. You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, and you should be proud of that.”

It didn’t happen often, but Emma flinched away from another’s gaze. Fine, so a tiny part of her felt exposed and vulnerable. The more ruthless side of her feared Betsy would do no good with her knowledge. No matter though, she could deal with rejection, manipulation, disgust, and threats; actually, she looked forward to a refreshing “no-I’m-right-and-I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good” fight with Betsy.

However, Emma couldn’t deal with Betsy’s acceptance. Compassion took the wind out of her sails. She came to be a martyr, one who would take someone else’s pain and make it her own. She dealt from a position of power, of prestige. Why? Because Emma hated being vulnerable to anybody. The White Queen never owed anyone anything. Now, Betsy turned the tables. Instead of the one giving comfort, Emma receive it.

Betsy cupped Emma’s chin and turned the blonde’s head so they faced each other again. “You’ve seen what I’ve been through. You understand, and we both know finding someone who understands is the hardest thing to do. Why not take advantage of the situation? After all, misery loves company.”

Never one to turn down comfort, Emma found Betsy’s mouth with her own. The blonde pressed her body closer to her counterpart’s, backing her down onto the bed. For Betsy, surprise grew into panic, and she pushed the woman away, her lush, pouty lips and nimble tongue be damned. That had the unfortunate consequence of tipping the IV over (thereby yanking it out of Betsy’s arm) and sending it into nearby equipment, accompanied, of course, by a large crash.

Bishop shifted in his seat and kept snoring.

Meanwhile, Emma had on her largest, most pretentious smirk. “You enjoyed it.”

Betsy suppressed the urge to exclaim “What was that?!” She knew what “that” was: Emma hated being out of control, and “that” was her bid to tilt the conversation in her favor. Maybe Betsy sounded and acted too intimately. Calling Emma loving? What about the taking advantage of the situation spiel? Putting her hands all over the blonde? Granted she’d overstepped some boundaries, but the kiss was uncalled for.

Despite knowing what Emma intended to do, Betsy still fell for it. She failed to clamp down on her wide-eyed expression, and now, Emma sashayed and pranced, once again assuming her White Queen persona to hide her insecurities. That explained why Emma had her left hand roaming around on her thighs, and-

Betsy gasped, a wave of sexual pleasure walloping her.

What in the Lord’s name was she doing with that other hand?!

Dipping her head down for another kiss, Emma’s shit-eating grin faltered for just a second. She whispered in a tender, truly loving voice, “I’m sorry,” and pressed her lips against Betsy’s.

If Bishop was awake, he would’ve seen Emma Frost and Elisabeth Braddock engaged in one of the most passionate exchanges he’d ever witnessed, and that included all the adult videos Bobby Drake made him sit through after he admitted not knowing what “Skinemax” was. If another telepath was present, he or she would’ve seen an explosion of psychic energies consistent with a mind wipe in progress.

However, neither telepath nor Bishop saw anything. Too bad for them... and Betsy.

Thoughts dimmed. Someone was switching off the lights in her head. Memories so stark seconds ago became unidentified impulses. Despite the violation, Betsy felt good, satisfied even. While she cut memories away, Emma stimulated the pleasure regions of the brain. The more she stayed in Betsy’s mind, the more Betsy wanted her to remain.

“NO!”

Surprisingly, Betsy resisted Emma. The blonde found herself rudely closed off from Psylocke’s mind and returned to her physical body, which at the moment draped itself over Betsy and dutifully kissed away. Emma got up.

“How could you?” Betsy snarled, rolling off the bed. “You had no right.”

The White Queen folded her arms. “You have the right to my memories? Don’t forget, Elisabeth, I helped you with the Shadow King, and it’s because of my assistance that you have my memories: I didn’t willingly give them to you. All I want is my privacy back.”

“So you admit it. You’re doing this for yourself, not to be benevolent.”

“What if I am? What if I don’t like sharing or opening up to others?”

“Then I’d say that’s why you’re never happy. You like to keep everything to yourself, including your sadness, and it only gets worse.” Betsy lowered her voice, “You still see Christian hanging himself, don’t you? What about the debauchery at the Hellfire Club? Any of that go away?”

No more nice White Queen. She lashed at Betsy with a fearsome psi-blast, but this time, Betsy prepared herself, protecting her mind against the blow. Their astral projections rose from their bodies, clad in their respective uniforms and ready for battle.

A spear of mental energy flew past Betsy, but it was only a diversion for Emma to get in close. The blonde hoped to end the fight quickly, but she underestimated how slippery Psylocke was and how painful her psychic knife could be. An unexpected slash reminded Emma, and she responded by reversing the flow of energy, overloading her opponent. Psylocke’s gasp gave Emma all the confidence she needed, and she pressed her advantage by establishing a foothold in the other’s mind. With masterful deftness, Betsy did the same, entering Emma’s consciousness through her connection, and like so, they found themselves in a standoff.

Betsy was in Emma and Emma was in Betsy.

*You knew what I wanted to do,* Emma dryly noted.

*I could say the same about you.*

Years later, our two heroines would spend much time reminiscing about what happened after they got into each other’s minds. They’d call themselves pathetic, funny, and generally screwed up in the head. They’d receive their fair share of jabs from friends and family alike. Many would press Bishop for the gory details, but he swore he didn’t see anything.

But the past was always more amusing than the present. What would be funny years later was drop-dead serious now, and this was as drop-dead, very-not-funny serious as anyone could get.

True to her nature, Emma fired the first proverbial shot, shredding Betsy’s stolen memories of Generation X. Proving she could give as good as she got, Betsy returned the favor by dismantling the White Queen’s bond with Brian Braddock. Next went the childhood moments, something both women didn’t feel comfortable with sharing and thus vigorously attacked. Afterward, Emma dove after her embarrassing adolescent memories while Betsy annihilated her formative time with the Hand. Failed relationships went flying out the door, accompanied by private conversations, powerful business deals, and shady agreements.

Now, mind wiping usually wasn’t painful. After all, the goal was to make a subject forget about a certain incident and inducing a splitting headache wasn’t conducive to subtly. Telepaths took great care in leaving no traces of memory tampering behind, elevating this activity to something of an art form. Ones like Emma certainly prided themselves in doing the cleanest job possible.

Neither telepath occupied themselves with doing a clean job. Instead of relying on the “mental scalpel,” they used the brutal “mental sledgehammer.” Result? Pain. Unadulterated, eye crossing, nose bleeding, brain pulsing, migraine-the-size-of-Siberia pain.

The mind link connecting the two severed, both unable to maintain their attacks on the others’ psyche. Of course, they weren’t exactly “quiet” in the telepathic sense either, what with throwing incredible psychic energies about like dodge balls. Their exchange had the effect of a rock concert next to a library, and unless Charles Xavier was in a coma, he would be carting himself into the medlab in about the next thirty seconds. Fortunately, Bishop slept like a baby...

Until Betsy, hanging on the bed for support, started chuckling.

Emma squinted and bit out between puffs of breath, “What’s so funny?”

The chuckles grew into laughter. “I... I just, I mean.... wow. We are two stubborn people, aren’t we?”

Did seem funny, didn’t it? Emma was sure she arrived with good intentions, but Betsy pushed all her wrong buttons. The kinship earlier dissipated during the fight only to now reassert itself when they became too tired to continue hating the other. What struck Emma the most was that, for being so hurt, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so pissed off. She suspected the same with Betsy.

Fucking mind wiping...

Emma’s scowl wavered as she absorbed the thoughts Betsy haphazardly threw her way.

*Come down to be an angel of mercy. Trying to do the “right thing.” Want to help ease someone else’s suffering. Make them forget. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Instead of thanks, there’s a fight about who has a right to know what about a person. Think you understand someone after your minds fuse but they surprise you. Got in a mental bitch fight. Why? I forgot. We’re fucked up, probably could’ve killed each other. I look like I escaped from a mental asylum. You look like you stepped out of one of Bobby’s terrible movies. Oh yeah, and we’re half naked too.*

The blonde looked down at herself and saw bare flesh staring back her. The bathrobe didn’t do anything for covering up and Betsy’s hospital garment started to come loose. Remnants of Emma’s lipstick smeared itself over Betsy’s face while the blonde herself sported a bloody nose from their psychic battle.

Took Emma a few moments to fully grasp the absurdity of their situation.

Did she really kiss Betsy?

What did she do with her right hand?

Was she suffering from brain damage?

Were they actually offering to comfort each other at some point?

Those stolen memories made absolutely no sense now, but at least they weren’t painful anymore. Good or bad?

And what episode of Springer would they show up in?

“You know,” said Betsy, trying desperately to contain herself, “I hope we didn’t wake the house.”

“Too late.”

Emma and Betsy turned in the general direction of the voice, which belonged to Bishop. Beside him stood Tessa (in some strikingly elegant, black silk PJs), Jean (decked out in her husband’s oversized “I brake for redheads” t-shirt), Scott (wearing his glasses and track pants), Bobby (sporting a wrinkled up Aerosmith sweater), Alex (clad in plaid), Lorna (Bathrobe. ‘Nuff said.), Logan (in his traditional flannel getup), Rogue (covered head to toe by sweats) and a staff wielding Remy (who had on a pair of incredibly manly Carebear boxers).

Everyone seemed at a loss for words. Wasn’t often the X-Men got caught flat footed and nearly flashed by members of their team. They all looked at each other, in particular studying the two women around the bed who couldn’t stop laughing. Wolverine reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar from his thought to be never ending cache. As he patted himself down for a light, a certain something caught his eye.

“Nice boxers, Gumbo.”

“Hey, Roguey gave dem to me.”

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 6

Title: What Would You Do With a Drunken Sailor

Chapter 5: What Would You Do With a Drunken Sailor

“Jesus Christ, Emma, what did you do to yourself?”

“Can it, Scott. Your obvious concern is like a fine misting of drool--disgusting and pointless.”

Most of the team attended to Betsy, corralling her for the Professor and bombarding her with questions, hopeful wishes, and cautious optimism. That left Scott to deal with Emma, and Emma didn’t feel like being dealt with. Despite his best efforts to keep her still, Emma absconded from the medlab and was currently gliding up the stairs at an almost frantic rate. His orders to stop slid off of her; his quickening pace spurred her on; he was thisclose to using his optic blasts to slow her down.

“You don’t have the gall, Summers,” Emma called out.

He tightened his thoughts, refusing to allow her any access.

“Do that a few more minutes and that lump of coal might turn into a diamond.”

ARGH! The woman infuriated him! He’d lived around telepaths for most of his life and none of them were ever this... this... aggravating! She pranced around the school like she owned it. Her aura of superiority never failed to press itself against everyone. When she sat down, she had to have two spaces--one for her and one for her ego!

“Very original. While you’re at it, how about some tired ‘Your Momma’ jokes too?”

He’d survived the Phoenix Force’s fury.

He’d survived battling cosmic evil doers.

He’d survived Apocalypse’s possession.

And yet, here was Emma Frost making him wish he hadn’t survived one of those times.

“Trust me, darling, it’s a talent.”

They ended up inside Emma’s room, though not of the blonde’s own volition. Giving in to her devious thoughts, she slowed down enough for Scott to somewhat catch up, and by then, they were outside her room. She planned to slam the door in the man’s face, but a slight miscalculation--and Scott’s sturdy foot--prevented the door from closing all the way. While he crumbled to the bed, she went to the bathroom to clean up. In a rare show of generosity (or perhaps even guilt), she left that certain door open so they could clearly hear each other.

“You wanted to talk,” Emma said, wiping her face of blood, “Talk.”

The groans got shoved into the back of Scott’s throat. He sat up and said through clenched teeth, “You’re a hazard.”

Emma spared the man a glance before returning to her previous activity.

“You don’t listen to orders,” Scott continued, “Do you even think about others? You could have endangered us tonight, maybe even some students. We have no idea what happened to Psylocke and the threat she could pose. Xorn had her sedated for a reason! That aside, you have an attitude problem that’s starting to grate on me. Contrary to your belief, your callous comments do not contribute to any situation. What compounds all of that is your unwillingness to compromise--it’s always your way or no way. I hate how you stir up our ranks and I despise your past history. The only reason I tolerate you is because you get results, but now I wonder at what cost. You’re inconsiderate and arrogant with a blatant disregard for other people’s mental privacy. You make me sick.”

Putting her towel down, Emma fished around for her mouthwash, gurgled generously when she found it, and checked her teeth in the mirror. No imperfections, but never hurt to make sure. Then, she washed her hands. Slowly. Took care to use extra hand soap too.

To this, Scott noisily shuffled and coughed.

Even without her telepathy, Emma felt Scott’s burning fuse. Was difficult these days to garner a response from him, and as always, she loved a good challenge. Make him squirm, make him fidget, make him pay the price trespassing into her room, make him use that under worked mouth of his. After all, he’d said more right now than he had in the months following his rescue from Apocalypse, and that was comforting.

Emma froze in her tracks. Comforting? Since when did she care about Summer’s welfare? The self-righteous man would be hitchhiking a ride through the galaxy with his ruffian of a father if she had her way. He was Xavier’s lapdog and Xavier already held a place of mild contempt in Emma’s heart. Scott Summers was like... like... the loose bits of cork floating in her thousand dollar bottle of merlot.

Somehow, that distain got replaced with a measure of respect and a pinch of attraction.

Narrowing her eyes, Emma turned her powers on herself, and for the first time, surveyed the damage her battle with Betsy did. The expected gouges lingered, empty spaces where the other’s memories should have been. Some ideas still weren’t quite cleaned up, but nothing too overwhelming or particularly powerful remained. Why the sudden burst of strange emotion then?

“This isn’t like you,” said Scott, “No witty comeback? No scathing remark?”

Must be a residual well of emotions somewhere, Emma mused. The memories might be gone, but the feelings attached to them weren’t.

“Is it because everything I said is right?”

God, maybe she could figure this out. She really hoped she could. For a few minutes, everything seemed to be ok again, like she’d just woken up and had only started grading those final papers.

Scott sighed, his posture slumping. “About some of those things... maybe I got a little out of hand.”

A twang of pity hit Emma, the man’s gesture playing upon her sense of camaraderie she knew she didn’t possess for him. She squashed her reaction and resumed her mental probing. No doubt Betsy’s working relationship with Scott had left its imprint b-

“But you have to admit, you haven’t been exactly a team player, and it’s difficult to account for.”

“Can’t you just shut up?!”

Last thing she needed was his annoying, pushing, deadpanning voice needling her, and somewhere between ditching him and closing the door in his face, the simpleton took it to mean she wanted him to be here. Could he help? No, his presence did absolutely nothing. He couldn’t contribute and he sure as hell wasn’t making life easier. Jean or Charles would’ve been much preferred over Scott, but...

Wait. Now she was trusting Jean or Charles to romp around in her mind?

Emma let out a breath of frustration. At least she still didn’t trust Tessa.

Scott blinked in disbelief. “I can’t even begin to understand you.”

“So don’t,” Emma snapped, “The children were never in harm’s way and I’m fine. There, you have no reason to be here. Leave my room, go tell Charles, and get your doggy biscuit from him.”

“I’m concerned for you!”

“After you finished saying I make you sick? After you thought about blasting the stairs from under me? No thanks. I don’t want your kind of concern. You may have some kind of hold over the others in this institute, but your pissant ways won’t work with me.”

Through her angry tirade, Emma’s eyes drifted all over Scott. His shirtless body grabbed her attention like a car accident--appalling, but too intriguing to not look. That hair, those glasses...

“OUT,” growled Emma, pushing the man off her bed and in the general direction of away. With a forceful slam, she closed the door to her room, finally minus one Scott Summers. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her quivering hands. She wanted to scrub them till they bled a la Lady Macbeth, but a small part of her couldn’t forget the skin-on-skin contact.

Her cell phone, which sat on her nightstand, rang.

Stilling herself, Emma glanced at the number, grimaced, and answered. “Emma Frost.”

“Ms. Frost, this is Dr. Isa Hayes. I uhh... have your results. Henry McCoy is-”

“Isa?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re fired.”

Oh, she’d been itching to say that ever since the Trump it fashionable.

*****************

Betsy wanted to smile: finally, home. Everything about the mansion filled her with nostalgia and comfort. From the fawning teammates to the Professor’s office, little had changed, and the near stasis comforted her. It made her feel relevant to the world and not some used up has-been passed by while she was gone. The familiarity dulled the terrible times in Belasco’s clutches. Physical stimuli reassured her existence.

Speaking of the Professor’s office, Betsy ran her hand along the mini-bar counter. The wood shined, polished to a reflective shimmer. Deep red dominated the walls, floor, and furniture--velvet curtains, crimson rugs, cherry wood tables, red leather chairs, Persian rugs. Antique lamps gave the room a soothing glow while the more than incredible bookshelves spoke volumes of the owner’s intelligence.

Now, the well stocked bar, on the other hand, sounded like a man’s strangled cry for help.

That gave Betsy a moment’s pause. A sliver of annoyance crept in with the last thought, and images of Charles drinking like a sailor amused her. For most of her life, she respected the man too much to think like that. Yes, he made some incredibly foolish decisions, but by and large, Charles Xavier was a good man who did more for her than many.

“You seem distracted, Elisabeth.”

Shaking her head, Betsy replied, “It’s nothing.”

He sat behind his immaculate desk, the lights surrounding him such a way that made him look devious. Shadows crowded his face while his hands clasped together like a criminal mastermind about to strike a deal. He leaned forward, just enough to seem intimidating and not enough to seem threatening. Even his voice took on a twist of false over-concern.

Then she sensed the telepathic touch. It wasn’t invasive or forceful and it surely wasn’t unexpected. The Professor liked to keep a minor link with all the X-Men in case he needed to summon them or vice versa--in fact, his caution saved her life more than a few times. She accepted it during her tenure here, and now that she was back, she shouldn’t have been so surprised he’d reached out again. The Professor was trying to show acceptance, that nothing had changed and he was here for her.

But she didn’t drop her mental shields. She raised them higher, strengthened them with the Shadow King’s stolen power. Unless he used all his considerable talents, he wouldn’t be able to break through, which oddly relieved her.

Not acknowledging her rejection of his link, Charles shifted in his chair and tried to jumpstart their conversation. “Jean tells me you and Emma might have destroyed Amahl Farouk.”

A safe, calculated statement. He went to a positive, stayed away from being patronizing, distanced himself from misunderstandings by saying Jean told him, and allowed Betsy to expose herself. What a manipulative old man...

Clenching her fists, Betsy willed away the cold, analytical distrust plaguing her.

“We did,” she confirmed. “Emma trapped him and we absorbed his energy.”

His features softened. “Fascinating. How did Emma trap him?”

“He was in her mind when she turned into diamond.”

“And how do you fit in to the picture?”

“I was trapped in there too. We had to merge our minds to overcome Emma’s genetic flaw.”

Charles sucked in a tight breath as he leaned back. “That would explain why Jean sensed aspects of her consciousness in you when Magik brought you back.”

Instead of elaborating, Betsy offered a dismissive, “Yeah, that would, wouldn’t it?”

“Do you understand the complications which go along with this kind of joining?” Charles pressed. “The scattered psyche, the personality changes, the identity crisis--these are things Scott is going through as we speak. I’m sure he could help you with the unwelcome side effects of psychic integration.”

Not long ago, Betsy would’ve been enamored with the prospect and sought out Scott. The attraction she had for him still flickered, and with her deadened emotions following the Crimson Dawn and the Shadow King’s possession, she would’ve loved to rekindle that flame. Jean be damned, she needed to feel--hate, lust, anger, anything.

But the Shadow King was gone. This body... this nature defying, demonic body she inhabited now was never exposed to the Crimson Dawn. The hurt lingered, but Betsy felt alive. Those months before her death were terrible, like she walked through existence with a dampener on her soul. She desperately tried to remove the numbness--that was why her comfortable relationship with Warren failed--and couldn’t. Her resurrection made her whole again and she didn’t need Scott any more.

She didn’t need his pity. She didn’t need Charles’ either.

“I can take care of myself,” Betsy bristled, “I have more than enough experience after going through this with Kwannon.”

“Well then, if you’re up to it, could you assist Scott?”

That sneaky baldy! He set her up for that! Refusing would make her seem like a selfish mongrel and accepting... well, that could lead to an endless road of manipulation and invasion of her privacy. What a bastard! What a travesty!

Again Betsy knocked the rogue thoughts away. “I’d be glad to,” she smiled through the yawn that came out of nowhere.

Charles returned the smile. “Sorry for keeping you up. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I’ll have someone show you to a guest room right away. Tomorrow we can continue sorting everything out with your brother and sister-in-law, whom I believe will shed much light into the situation.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Then Warren walked in.

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 7

Title: When In Doubt, Run

Chapter 6: When in Doubt, Run

The next day proved much more energetic, though less eventful, than the previous. Three former X-Men--Hank, Kitty, and Betsy--returned, and pretty much everyone wanted to talk to at least one of them. Early in the morning, Brian and Meggan showed up, thereby occupying Rachel and Kurt’s time as the Excalibur teammates caught up (that was, of course, after the visitors had a lengthy meeting with Charles). The Braddocks breathed a sigh of relief when they heard Betsy was up and about. Determined to help their friend as much as they could, Remy and Rogue volunteered to move Betsy’s things out of storage: giving the woman back her own private space would be a nice start reasoned Remy. As for Kitty, she hung out with Ororo as they talked about recent happenings and the older woman’s reoccurring friction with the Professor.

And Hank?

“Oh my stars and garters,” he mumbled.

Jean sat across from him soothing his enormous headache by using her powers. The migraine-like symptoms had been there since he woke, and like the aftermath of a bad drinking binge, he couldn’t remember how he got back to the mansion. He’d left months ago, right after...

“Betsy!” he gasped.

Sensing his impending breakdown, Jean staved off Hank’s recollections. She bottlenecked the memories, slowing their progress so they wouldn’t rattle him as much. Bits and pieces flowed into his consciousness, and while they didn’t lack for impact, at least he had an opportunity to ready himself.

The Beast gratefully sighed. “Thank you, Jean.”

“She’s ok now,” the redhead said, watching him muse over his thoughts. “Emma and Kitty got her back.”

“Where is she now?”

A telepathic search told her, “Settling down in her room.”

Pause, then, “Do you think she blames me for her death?”

Jean patted Hank’s furry hand. “I can’t answer for her, but my guess would be no.”

“She said she did though. She made me relive that day and showed me what I could’ve done.”

“She wasn’t herself, Hank.”

“What happened?”

Finally repairing most of the psychic trauma, Jean stood and straightened her clothes. “It’s Betsy’s story to tell. I think she’s just as afraid to talk to you as you are to her.”

“I’ll trust your impeccable judgment,” breathed Hank as he massaged his temples, “You’ve never been wrong about things like this.”

The redheaded smiled and offered her hand to him. “Come on, both of us need a late lunch.” Then, she added with a twinkle in her eye, “My treat.”

Slipping back into his lighthearted role was too easy, and as Charles had noted many times, one of his knee-jerk defense mechanisms. Hank placed a furry palm on his chest and swooned in his best Southern Belle imitation, “Why Ms. Grey! I’d be honored if you’d buy me a fine meal!”

They bantered all the way from the medlab to the dining room, which, in light of the recent guests, returning friends, and uncharacteristically idle X-Men, contained a buffet spread of everyone’s favorites. Well, that is, used to contain everyone’s favorites. Most of the team had already whirlwinded through, and what remained looked pitiful.

Sandwiches remained the one ray of hope.

Still in his effeminate voice, Hank gasped, “Leftovers! Deeeelicious! Ms. Grey, your frugal ways are exceeded only by your stunning beauty!”

Jean playfully smacked the back of his head for that one.

The good news about catching lunch after midday--privacy. Perfect time to broach tough subjects, break the ice, catch up on old times, and ease concerns, though not necessarily in that order.

Jean started easy. Between bites of greasy chips, she asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Remind me to stop waking up in odd places after a night on the town.”

“I’m serious, Hank. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” he laughed humorlessly. “Life as a retired X-Man isn’t as colorful as it once was. Been a straggler here and there, mostly cobbling side work for Stark Solutions. My good man Tony has been doing heavy lobbying to get me back into the Avengers despite my repeated declines. I swear, he has the most one-track mind I’ve honestly ever met. Can you say stubborn? Bejeezus! He’s an absolute nutcase when he puts his parietal lobe to it!”

No matter how interested in Tony Stark’s life Jean was--as evidenced by all those tabloids piled in her room--she wanted to know about the less neutral subjects, stuff like his plans, his state of mind, or hey, maybe even what Betsy did to him after he got captured. “Hank,” she interrupted, stopping him mid-ramble, “You’re babbling again.”

“Oh my stars and garters, I believe I am. My apologies, Jean. Where have my manners gone? On sabbatical perhaps?”

The redhead pushed her food away and fixed her eyes on the man in front of her. “We’re all here for you, Hank. If you need anything or have any problems, you can always come back to us. You know that, right?” When he didn’t reply, Jean just continued on. “Have you had a chance to think things over? The mansion hasn’t been the same without you. I... We miss you.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he whispered, “But returning has never been an option.”

“Be a teacher. Help us with research. Anything. We want you here.”

He’d imagined this exact conversation many times before. In dreams--daydreams or otherwise--he went through scenarios with each member of the X-Men and firmly stood by his absence from the team. However, as the Danger Room showed, simulation didn’t equate to reality. The steadfast demeanor, staunch defense, and stout, determined heart couldn’t even begin to counter Jean’s sad, soulful eyes.

His voice got raspy and he coughed to clear it. “I love all of you and would be overjoyed to be part of your lives again, but I don’t have the fortitude to be an X-Man anymore. Even if I was to be a mere teacher, I will still be embroiled in what I’ve tried so hard to avoid.”

“You can’t hide from adversity.”

“Yes I can!” he yelled, bringing his meaty fists down on the table. The brief, wild fury in his eyes subsided, and he muttered some choice words to chastise himself over the outburst. “Part of me dies every time one of you comes back wounded. Everyone else can go away and negotiate peace with themselves, but I have to treat you. Every gunshot, head trauma, and egregious mutant attack, I wonder to myself if I could’ve done more.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Hank,” lauded Jean, taking his furry hand in her own, “You’ve done the best job anyone could ask for, and none of us would be here without you.”

“Sometimes it’s not enough.” Defeat and weariness weigh down his large frame. “Seeing family clinging onto their lives is impossible. Were I an impartial, emotionless medic, I would return, but alas, I am not. I do my utmost to help every one of you, and when my utmost fails, the loss rips my heart asunder. You are not nameless faces and I can’t let you go. I’ve been by your bedsides during the worst of times, but I just can’t do it anymore. My only recourse is... well... retreat.”

Then he added with a snort, “Custard would be ashamed of me.”

The will to do good still shined. The ability to help still lingered. The knowledge to save lives still treaded about. The missing element was the gleam in his eyes, the want to play the unheralded mediator between mutants and human. Everyone knew Hank took Betsy’s death hard, but none suspected it was only the surface of the man’s misgivings.

Those who’d done as much as Jean and Hank had, those brave few deserved a right to be tired of the trials they’d gone through. Jean understood his sentiments and hoped that later down the road, he’d change his mind. Scott, Logan, Charles, Ororo, Rogue, pretty much everyone went through a burnout period, but return or no, Jean wanted to be there for Hank. They’d lost a few of their own through neglect, and she was determined not to let one of her oldest and dearest friends slip through the cracks.

Maybe a different approach would be more fruitful. Hank need closure and a dose of reassurance, so, “When you’re up to it, how about talking to Betsy?”

*****************

“Warren, I don’t want to talk about anything.”

Opened boxes littered the room. Clothes lay unhung, dust covered Japanese antiques, and furniture found themselves piled into a corner. At the end of the day, perhaps the place would recover a smidgen of its lost glory, but at the moment, it remained an unfinished thought. And instead of sorting this fine mess, Betsy sorted another fine mess, one of the social/romantic persuasion in the form of Mr. Worthington.

To be fair, their unscheduled meeting last night didn’t go bad. The Professor shocked them both into silence and they parted with an uneasy exchange of goodnights. Apparently through the course of the night, Warren thought over a few unresolved issues and decided now was the perfect time to work them out.

Smart man too--he cornered her after Remy and Rogue left to get more boxes from storage.

“Why did you do it, Betsy?” he asked while following her around, “Why did you go to Neal? What did I do wrong?”

According to Rogue (who yammered away about this and that in a thinly veiled attempt to keep the mood light), Warren had Paige Guthrie on his arm now. By all accounts, they were happy, devoted, and inseparable. So why, Betsy wondered, dwell over their past and failed relationship?

Maybe if she kept moving her things he’d go away... but then again, she wouldn’t be dealing with Warren.

She brushed off a stray hair and said in her most uninterested voice, “I left because you didn’t understand me and never made an effort to.”

“And Neal did?”

“No, he didn’t either, but at least he was something new.”

Warren threw his arms up. “So that’s why you left? Got tired and decided to go for greener grass?”

“Bloody hell, Warren, you get like this when your feathers are ruffled and you’re impossible to deal with.”

His back stiffened as his face became unreadable. “Get like this? What does ‘this’ mean?”

Oh God, not now, please oh please not now. Betsy hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s eventfulness and here her ex-lover was throwing a tantrum the size of Jubilee’s admirable CD collection. She had an immense wealth of bitterness stored in her because of Belasco, not to mention stray bits of Emma’s thoughts and feelings floating about like cork in a thousand dollar bottle of merlot. The rational side of her didn’t want to unleash this rage upon him, but she couldn’t say the same for every other side of her.

For all his etiquette and chivalry, Warren could be a supreme ass when he wanted to be one. If he were to find his manhood or station in life insulted, he’d call upon the devious cutthroat (which made him the businessman he was) in him to strike back. Betsy’s hasty, ill-advised flirtation with Neal qualified as insult enough, and while she thought they’d dealt with their issues already, Warren hadn’t.

He had no claim over her. They’d both moved on.

Betsy reiterated her first statement. “I don’t want to talk about anything, Warren.”

“No you don’t,” he snarled, snaring her arm, “I want an explanation!”

His powerful grip should have hurt, but Betsy barely felt it. She looked down distastefully at his gesture and ordered, “Let go.”

His actions finally hit him, and he complied. “I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said, sounding appropriately remorseful, “I don’t know what came over me. I-”

“Don’t say another word,” she warned, “Just... get out. It’ll be best if we keep our distance from each other.”

“I wanted to-”

“I said not another word!”

Remy, full length mirror in tow, chose that moment to walk in. “Eh?” He raised a brow, “There something wrong here, chere?”

“Nothing. Warren was just about to leave. Isn’t that right?”

“Right,” the man nodded, accepting the exit, “I’ll see you around.”

The disapproving frown on the Cajun’s face said it all. “Y’ok, chere?”

“Never been better.”

Shrugging, Remy’s sunny demeanor returned as he gestured at his heavy burden. “Where you want dis?”

“Right there’s fine.”

They worked, hauling Betsy’s belongings from one place to the next. Essentials like bed and clothes got set up first while decorations lay in disarray. The aim: make the room livable by the end of the day, and judging by their progress, they’d probably make it if Rogue returned from wherever. On the bright side, without the woman’s chatter, the two slipped into a comfortable, peaceful pace.

As they went about their business, Remy smiled and softly said, “Death’s pretty interestin’.”

A crash of porcelain answered the comment. Betsy bent down to clean up the dropped items but showed no signs of acknowledging her companion’s observation. “Hand me the dustpan, please.”

“Lemme help you with that.”

They cleaned, and as they gathered shards of clay, Remy started back up the conversation. “The light... beautiful, wasn’t it?” he gently prodded.

“I wouldn’t know,” Betsy muttered, “Only light I saw came from hellfire.”

He repressed the pitying, sidelong glance he wanted to throw her way. Ok, touchy, dark, and painful subject approaching. In his eyes, Betsy had done more than enough to warrant the peace he himself felt during his out of body experience, and the revelation of an unpleasant afterlife threw the Cajun for a loop. Maybe a little news about vengeance was in order. In Remy’s experience, vengeance usually made people feel better.

Still nonchalant as ever, he said without looking at Betsy, “Roguey took care of Vargas.”

“Did she kill him?”

Not answering, he swept up the remnants of the mess and sighed.

And despite not hearing an answer, Betsy put two and two together. The X-Men, in the words of Summers and Xavier, weren’t about killing, and some people had problems with the creed--one of those was Remy. His silence only meant he didn’t want to voice his displeasure.

“Good,” she said unexpectedly and resumed her moving.

“Good what?”

“I’ll get a chance to kill him myself.”

That stirred some unfathomable, buried thoughts in him. Those red pupils got smaller, an indication of his concentration, combat readiness, and or seriousness. The levity made another disappearing act and his expression became grave. He dumped the broken porcelain in the trash and turned to face her.

“Over de years,” he began, “only you an’ Logan trusted me without question. Those things you saw when you went through my head an’ found out ‘bout what I did with Sinister, you never told another soul.” Stepping closer to her, he whispered, “You saved Rogue at de expense of your life. I owe you, chere, an’ Remy LeBeau always pays his debts.”

His comforting hand found its way onto her shoulder. “If you ever need anything...”

“I’ll ask,” she finished.

He smiled. “Glad to have you back, Betts.”

Their Kodak moment lasted only a few seconds, and they took advantage of it with an embrace. The man had offered his word, his support, and his skills to be used at her discretion. She might’ve been gone and he might’ve had questions about her state of mind, but the sign of implicit trust went a long way to ease her ever increasing stress. Made her feel like part of the team again. It felt natural but at the same time overwhelming.

Soon enough, and remarkably timed, Rogue’s voice approached. By the way she conversed, she had company.

“... I know, sugah, don’t worry your l’il blonde heads cuz your sister’s settlin’ in just fine!” She paused long enough to look into the room, put her hands on her hips, and squint her eyes at her significant other. “Remy, ah thought ah told you to help Betsy. How come nothin’s done?”

“Mercy, chere. Me an’ Betsy just catchin’ up.”

“Well, less jawin’ and more workin’ LeBeau! Her brother’s here and ah wanna make a good impression.”

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted, snapping to it double time and all that good military mumbo jumbo Bishop marched to.

Betsy caught the twinkle in their eyes, a sign they’d been up to something. Telepathically, Betsy said to Rogue, *You had him talk to me.*

Odd. There was… something in the back of her head when she sent her message to Rogue, like a buzzing or a presence or… just something. Betsy hid the unexpected revelation well and made a decision to keep the telepathic conversation short.

Meanwhile, Rogue, who still stood at the door blocking the entrance to her unrevealed--though hardly mysterious--companions, playfully winked. Her thoughts, however, held a more somber tone. *Ah hope you don’t mind. There’s lotta stuff ya probably don’t wanna talk about, but Remy and me, we wanted to thank you.*

*You’re welcome, Rogue.*

*Sugah, what are friends for?*

“So,” the brunette said aloud, “Here’s the girl o’ the hour. I’ll leave ya’ll ‘lone ta do family stuff. Come on, Remy.” Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him out of the room, “Let’s get outta here.”

“But Roguey! I ain’t done yet!”

“Hush, ya hear?”

Their subsequent mummers and giggles faded down the hall and in stepped Brian and Meggan Braddock.

“Aren’t they just lovely?” Meggan beamed, pecking her husband on the cheek.

To the interesting couple, Brian coughed into his hand to stifle any witty (and most possibly inappropriate) comments he had. Few appreciated his British humor. “Awesome, luv,” he settled on, then smiled at his twin sister, “Making yourself at home?”

“You have a flair for the obvious, Brian.”

He brushed off the jab with his natural aplomb. “My new mantle is, after all, Captain Obvious.” Cocking his head, he added, “I thought you were going to come back with us after you woke up.”

“I might,” Betsy allowed, “but since I’m here already, figured I should settle back in.”

Meggan’s unflappable smile immediately brightened. “If you are a bit tired after all this moving, would you come and have an early dinner with us? We are very happy about your return! I have so much to tell you!”

“Luv, Betsy’s probably a mite-”

“Nonsense!” she giggled. “We can have so much fun! How about Chinese? Greek? Oh oh, Italian!”

Lift heavy things or eat--hardly a choice at all. “I’ll get my coat.”

*****************

Late afternoon.

Lorna took a hit.

No, she wasn’t addicted. Addicts craved their drug of choice and stopped at nothing to get their next high. Lorna was... fond of her drug. She enjoyed the heady rush of excitement and the spike of power bleeding through her veins, but she didn’t need it. She could kick the habit at any time.

Haha, kick the Kick. Funny.

Whatever Kick gave her, it was superior to what her supposedly loving fiancée gave her. Alex Summers muddled through their wedding plans like a zombie, only less lively and more stoically. What do you think of this cake? Fine. How about my gown? Does it make me look fat? Kind of. How many people should be invite? Enough. Are you an asshole? Yes.

Why, a girl could get the idea he didn’t want her hand in holy matrimony.

But Kick made it all better. The arguments with Alex, the horrible nightmares she had about Genosha, and Magneto, her father, her brave, caring father who saved her from the sentinel slaughter and swore to be the presence he wasn’t in her childhood, the same father who left but now returned.

“Help me, my daughter.”

Of course, Papa.

“Together, we are invincible.”

Yes, Papa.

“You have to use your abilities.”

Yes, Papa.

“ALL of your abilities. Like right now. You have to cloud their minds and inject chaos into their hearts.”

I know, Papa.

“The world will tremble before our feet.”

Why, Papa?

“Because the world hurt us. They took me away from you. They took you away...”

The world has to pay, Papa. You know I love you , Papa. Papa? Are you there? Papa?

Papa? Papa?!

Flicker of light and the high left her.

That was the thing about inhaling Kick--didn’t last long. Needle wasn’t an option because she was out. Lorna found herself lying on her bed, none worse for the wear. A gentle knock on her door made her twenty pounds too heavy head roll at the unwanted noise.

“Lorna?” came Jubilee’s voice from the outside. “Ya got a package, girl. Leavin’ it on your doorstep if you’re in there. If you’re not, I guess I’m just talking to myself.”

The pounding footsteps disappeared, thank God. Peeling herself from the bed, Lorna shuffled as fast as she could to retrieve the parcel and duck back into her sanctuary.

Yes, finally!

The sender? The Kensington Informatics Company of Kentucky, or the aptly abbreviated K.I.C.K. Hey hey, her new shipment of Kick. Had Lorna been in a right state of mind, she would’ve noticed some strange things. Like for example, what company ever got a package from Kentucky to New York overnight when the shipping cost was clearly calculated for standard shipping? Oh, what about the fact she never sent out for shipments of Kick, and somehow, they managed to get to her whenever she needed it? How did the sender know to package only needles this time?

Whatever.

Lorna took a hit.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 8

Title: Kung-Fu Fighting

Chapter 7: Kung-Fu Fighting

Emma hated the Danger Room. She understood its importance and marveled at its technology, but she hated the virtual space with a passion none suspected. The sterile walls, the psychically unreadable illusions, the very real pain--she felt like a cow wearing a large “Tip Me” sign, and Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER felt that way... even when she clad herself in leathers and over-indulged on her favorite foods... which was, yet again, something Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER did.

Too bad though. Scott “My Problems Are Worse Than Yours” Summers required all local, active members of the X-Men to log at least one hour per week in the blasted room. Sure, she was far from defenseless and rarely made an oaf of herself, but the ineffectiveness of her mental powers tested her patience. Her fighting style hinged on being able to read her opponent, then confusing them with mental illusions. Yes, she could throw a mean punch too, but Emma preferred the others think of her as a fragile, physically incapable female.

This led her to the habit of venturing into the Danger Room alone.

She didn’t mind failing. She didn’t mind the pain too much, especially since she could shift to her diamond form. She didn’t mind the workout and actually appreciated it. However, she minded her weapon of choice being taken from her, and she didn’t want any one knowing she could hold her own without her powers. Back in Generation X, Sean got a surprise when he made that assumption, and Emma wanted to keep that proverbial ace up her sleeve.

Dutifully, the blonde programmed in her normal, light sequence of scenarios and prepared herself for a mish mash of drudgery, combat, mild excitement, and reflex honing. Maybe she could even expel some of that aggression she saved up from last night.

The Danger Room fizzled away, replaced by a sophisticated, indoor firing range. Weapons of all calibers lined the walls, and from the cache, Emma selected two semi-automatic handguns. Targets small and large meandered through the soon-to-be bullet-ridden up no man’s land, attempting in their own little mechanical ways to avoid getting shot.

A series of bangs and a bunch of smoke emanated from where she stood.

“Accuracy: 93.33%,” said the Danger Room’s system, “Retry scenario?”

She hit with twenty eight of thirty bullets--good enough, but she was a perfectionist. However, today, she found target practice (usually her favorite activity) uninspiring, and the drive to do more wasn’t there. Aforementioned aggression? Still there and thirsting for something more.

“End program,” Emma commanded. “Run CQC, level 5.”

In place of the firing range appeared the interior of a nondescript gym. No more guns on the walls, only mirrors. Cement flooring got covered by a room wide mat, perfect for getting thrown on. A deadly looking man resembling a younger and scruffier Kurt Russell decked out in army fatigues stood in the middle. Muscular but not bulky, he fell into his fighting stance with a deliberate, intimidating, and predatory grace. Arms up, knees bent, he seemed to allow a great deal of vulnerability to his gut, but one look at his elbows and feet told the blonde he would be ready to counter any such attack.

Always a cerebral fighter, Emma didn’t respond to the man’s movements, choosing to remain standing and seemingly unprepared. She scoffed at herself for trying to intimidate a computer simulation, but in all honesty, her other encounters with this same program hadn’t gone well. She’d been stuck at this difficulty level for the past four months, and the record was a humbling seventeen and zero in favor of wanna-be Kurt Russell. His fighting skills and physical strength were simply superior to Emma’s, and believe you me, the blonde tried everything short of assuming her diamond form to subdue the man, including but not limited to low blows, concealed weaponry, programmed allies, and firearms.

Until now, she accepted her defeated, noted her weaknesses, worked on them, and hoped the next week would show progress. Today, perhaps caving in to her ever increasing stress, she didn’t want to end up lying on the mat. Pride about her fighting skills welled up, and...

Those were Betsy’s feelings, weren’t they?

Sensing a moment’s distraction, the man threw his fist forward to catch Emma’s jaw. On a good day at the height of her concentration, she would’ve deflected the blow, but no, not today. For some reason, his normally lightning quick strikes slowed a hair, and even with a stray thought occupying her, Emma had the presence of mind to back step out of his range. Unperturbed by the dodge, he lunged again, this time using a standing sweep to trip up his opponent.

Reflexes took over and she stepped into his attack. Instead of his leg connecting on her shins, his thigh ineffectively bumped hers, which didn’t do any damage and left him off balance. Pressing her advantage, Emma hooked his arm and droved his face against the mat. His awkward position and body weight assisted by her force produced an ominous snap, and before she could gloat over her handiwork, the man disappeared.

“CQC level 5 completed. Retry scenario?”

Did she just...? But didn’t the guy...? How come he was so...?

Emma’s eyes widened in excitement. “Scenario revision,” she called out, “CQC level 6.”

The same man reappeared in the middle of the room, and he didn’t waste any time. He charged in, tackling Emma and pushing her into the wall. His fists pounded her side, driving the breath from her and refusing to let her recover. Eventually, he eased up to right himself and deliver a knockout hit, but Emma moved too quickly for him: she ducked his roundhouse punch and nailed him between the legs. She stood up and he bent over, allowing the blonde to move to his left and send him flipping with a vicious kick underneath the chin.

Right when he landed, he winked out of existence.

“CQC level 6 completed. Retry scenario?”

“CQC level 7.”

This one put up a minor fight, but he had a date with a mirror and he had to leave.

“Level 8.”

The vast array of moves didn’t save him from all the broken bones.

“Level 9!”

Good, but not good enough. He didn’t expect that head butt.

“Level 10!”

Now, fighting this one energized her. Back and forth the advantage went, and the more blows exchanged, the more her spirit soared. This harmony with her body... unbelievable! Their battled seemed like an improvised masterpiece, fitting together into a painting or a dance or a song. A few instances, Emma even felt like she’d left her body, allowing to it react on its own; the nothingness and weightlessness balanced nicely against the flowing movements. A runner’s high some people called it, but only this combination of satisfaction, adrenaline, and artistry related to the martial arts. And in the final brushstroke, Emma thrust the side of her hand into man’s exposed neck. He coughed, stumbled, then dropped to the floor.

“CQC level 10 completed. Program suite completed.”

Emma gazed at the empty gym. She never experienced any transcending aspects of hand-to-hand combat before, but it felt a lot like her first successful foray into telepathy: exhausting and rewarding. If this was how Betsy felt whenever she fought, then... wow. No wonder she loved the Danger Room.

Suddenly, Tessa’s voice and mild applause crackled over the speakers. “I am impressed, Emma.”

Damn that woman. She was one of the few people who could sneak up on Emma. “Close program and logout.”

The Danger Room in all its sterile glory came back into being, and high above, Tessa loomed behind the control room’s glass.

“Why are you here?” the blonde asked, displeased.

“You went over your allotted time,” said Tessa, “My hour is after yours.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Emma made for the exit, content to get away from the woman.

Tessa, however, had other ideas. “Your style is remarkably like Psylocke’s. I did not know you studied aikido or karate.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“No, I do not, but I make it my business to scrutinize, analyze, and dissect all information available.” The blonde continued on her way out, ignoring Tessa. “I have found a disturbing trend on the premises of late,” Tessa called out, “Because I only have conjectures at this point, my words to you are simple: I will be watching your every move.”

That sounded like a threat, but to the best of Emma’s knowledge, Tessa never threatened so... so... inelegantly. Her supposed categorical knowledge of everything made her into a wallflower, and when she did act, she preferred cloak and dagger over strong-arm tactics. So then was this a friendly warning? Hard to believe considering their icy relationship (which of course stemmed from their Hellfire days). Despite being part of the X-Men, neither woman would mind the other not showing up for breakfast one morning. What could possibly rattle Tessa so much that she not only acted uncharacteristically but also didn’t approach someone else like the Professor?

Well, maybe the assumptions had a hand in that.

Puzzling woman that one, and compounded by her resistance to Emma’s telepathy, also an annoying one.

On the way to her room, Emma smashed into a seemingly preoccupied Xorn and landed flat on her back.

“Excuse me,” the man immediately said, extending his hands and helping her up.

Since he was so nice, “No harm done.”

All would’ve been fine with the world if Emma could just waltz into her private space and take the relaxing shower she’d been fantasizing about for the past five minutes. But no, her own feet betrayed her, placing her in front of Betsy’s old (Or was it current?) room. Was it so hard to ask for the little things to go right? Really, only two other people made their abodes in this wing--Logan and Kurt--and Emma didn’t want to see either of them.

Sighing, she turned tail and went back down the hall, this time firmly guiding her increasingly scattered thoughts.

*****************

Limbo, the point between everywhere and nowhere, Amanda’s home. Last few days, this bastion had seen more visitors and action than it had in the past year. Doctor Strange left not long ago, and now, she walked amongst her belongings to admire them.

Limbo, the point between everywhere and nowhere, Amanda’s home, was extremely boring like that.

Battle armor, eyes of newt, chains of memories, a giant’s glute, flaming canes, random banes, flowers of spring, instruments of pain, shiny trinkets, missing trinkets, ebony mirrors, iron-

“Hold the phone,” she said to herself, “Missing trinkets?”

She observed her vast collection of trinkets and noticed a small space between her rings and bracelets. What was suppose to be there? Think, think, think...

Ah, yes, a pendant! The pendant which served as a bypass around Limbo, enabling the wearer to go from the Otherworld to the actual world in one clean hop.

“Where did I put that thing?”

Amanda turned Limbo upside down but still couldn’t find it.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 9

Title: Dinner, Dance, and Show

Chapter 8: Dinner, Dance, and Show

Dinner at the nearest Italian restaurant was a quiet affair. Suffice to say, discussing the intricacies of Belasco’s gruesome skills over a plate of eggplant parmesan met stiff resistance. Meggan wanted to focus on lighter topics; Brian tried to pick Betsy’s brain; Betsy hadn’t even sorted it all out yet, and she sure as hell didn’t want to blabber about anything in public. Brian’s insistence pestered Betsy, and by the time they’d exchanged their sibling snipes at each other, neither were in the mood to humor Meggan. In turn, Meggan ignored the two and passed the time by twiddling her thumbs.

That and debating with herself how long Brian would be sleeping on the couch when they got home.

For being the ruler of the Otherworld, Brian sure put himself in a lose-lose situation: his wife and twin sister both slapped him with the Silent Treatment. The devious glimmer in Meggan’s eyes and the venomous glare in Elisabeth’s convinced him to work everything out before the two women in his life crushed his spirit.

Brian put his fork down. “Betsy, how about you take a vacation with us? Fancy a cruise?”

“Lovely, Brian. Then I can spend all of my days on a boat underneath your scrutiny with no means of escape save overboard. Lovely.”

“I’m looking out for you. Who knows what Belasco did to you?”

“I know what he did to me,” Betsy flatly said, resuming her meal.

“Don’t I have a right to worry about you?”

“Yes you do, so if you have anything you want to say to me, say it.”

“I...”

“Want to know if I’m really your sister? Want to know what the deal is with Frost? Want to know what else Belasco had in mind when he gathered all the other poor saps and assaulted the Otherworld? Want to know what to do about my tombstone in your backyard?”

“What is your problem?!”

“Life.” Tiredly, she motioned their waiter for the bill. “Sorry, but I’m not playing twenty questions anymore.”

“That’s it? I lose you for months, fight for your soul, and when I try show support, you’re suddenly a Prima Donna? Do you even want to see me?”

“Back off, ok? Next time you come back from the dead, remind me to watch over you like a hawk and treat you like glass.”

Brian tried to say more, but Meggan caught his gaze and shook her head. No good could come out of this, and while the blonde woman was angry at her husband, she wasn’t heartless enough to let him flounder. “Call us,” she said to Betsy.

Her sister-in-law spared her a strained smile before leaving money on the table and disappearing out the door. Brian groaned, put his head in his hands, and released a great breath. “That could’ve gone better.”

“No, it couldn’t have.” A confused Brian silently beg his better half for an explanation. Lucky him, Meggan could never resist those doleful eyes. “Honey, Betsy’s gone through the Otherworld’s worst, and now, she’s inside a demon’s body. She had any number of reasons to walk out on you and pressing her to open up one day after she gets back control of herself isn’t your most intelligent idea. We both know she has a rebellious streak after what the Hand did to her.”

“She’s always had the rebellious streak,” he confessed, “but, as usual, you’re right. I just wished she’d let me help her. I know I can make her feel better.”

“Brian, she is your sister: being here for her already makes her feel better. She’ll come back to you if you stop nagging. Be glad to know that for the most part, your sister’s soul is still intact. Besides, you are sooo cute when you’re arguing, it’ll be an injustice to split you apart. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a pair of twins more different than the two of you.”

“Thanks, luv, I really needed that backhanded compliment.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled and batted her eyelashes, “you deserved it after ruining dinner.”

“Awww bugger, I know that look. You’re putting me on the couch tonight, aren’t you?”

“Your powers of deduction are astounding, Captain Obvious.”

*****************

What Emma would’ve given for a quiet, Italian dinner... oh, like this encounter with Xavier for instance. Started innocuously enough.

Emma. Charles. Could I have a word with you about the semester grades? They’ll be done at the end of the week. I was thinking about giving you an extension. Really? Really. No thank you, I will have the grades in by then. Emma, you shouldn’t push yourself. Charles, I know my limits. Betsy doesn’t know hers. What are you insinuating? Perhaps this conversation would be better in my office.

Damn him, hooking her in like that.

She tapped her feet, wishing the office’s carpet was of a harder material so her displeasure could reverberate off the walls. “Aren’t you going to ask about yesterday’s gory details?”

“No,” the Professor said as he gestured for the blonde to sit, “I’m going to ask how one of my instructors is feeling after a harrowing twenty four hours.”

She slid onto one of the velvet couches and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tired and fetid.”

“Fetid?”

“There was a swamp and, well, never mind. There was a swamp. I can still smell the decaying plants.”

“My... condolences,” he carefully said behind a smile. Seeing Emma’s relaxed state, he kept the light, casual tone as he talked. “I understand you also had quite an exchange with Betsy last night. Jubilee’s rumor mill has been amazingly busy.”

Emma had a million reasons to ignore Charles ranging from his shady actions to his legendary (and often blind) idealism. He’d worked his brand of palatable manipulation on her before, giving just enough to entice her but taking back as much as he wanted--see her presence at his mansion teaching under his roof for an example. After her Hellions died, she thought maybe her old methods were wrong and that his were better. Turned out his pacifist ways produced no better results: Everett would agree if he wasn’t dead. Old man Xavier was as shifty as he was bald, and although Emma loved a good challenge, she hated losing, which was something she did too often around him.

Both acknowledged the horde of unresolved issues between them, and for their own selfish reasons, coexisted with each other in spite it all. Charles needed bona fide teachers and Emma needed to teach; however, her contract made no mention of this X-Men garbage and she got dragged into it any way (though it was hard to turn a blind eye when the classrooms get attacked). After looking at their encounters, the blonde noticed she more often than not got stuck with the short end of the proverbial stick, hence her contempt for him.

But today, Charles was too disarming. How could she summon her passive-aggressiveness when he dripped caring and concern? She wanted a fight, not this huggy-feely stuff!

Damn him, catching her in a moment weakness like that.

“Betsy and I reached an understanding,” she allowed.

“So I’ve gathered from all the people I’ve spoken to.” The Professor neglected to mention he’d have to be psi-mute or dead to not sense the amount of energy expended in the medlabs last night. Ever the opportunist, he folded his hands together and helped Emma’s sputtering mind along. “Are you feeling any effects of your merging with Elisabeth?”

“Mild effects,” she reflexively answered. “Emotion fragments, borrowed memories, acquired skills--nothing traumatic or overbearing.”

“Those are hardly mild symptoms, Emma. Given time, they could do your psyche much harm, especially the negative subconscious aspects loosened by the encounter.”

Yes, and? “I am hardly a novice when it comes to these things. I’ll be fine.”

“And in case you aren’t fine? Your teammates are willing to help you any way they can, myself included.”

Emma almost accepted the offer: the affirmative hung on the tip of tongue before she regained in enough good sense to give it a swift--and hopefully painful if words could feel pain--death. Thanks to Betsy, she might have had a rosier view of Charles, but willing to bare her neck to him she was not. When all was said and done, the man was one of the most selfish, egomaniacal, and arrogant people in existence. Had to be one to lead a bunch of renegades who fought for “the peaceful co-existence between humans and mutants.”

Ah, finally! Her passive-aggressiveness found time out of its busy schedule to plop itself between Xavier’s unfathomable purposes and her own agendas.

“Papers await,” Emma said, dodging Xavier’s olive branch, “Besides, I can only take so much mindless drabble in one day.”

Stand, pivot, walk, exit, slam--like so, the blonde poofed away. Charles waited a few seconds before calling out, “Tessa?”

The dark haired woman emerged from behind the curtains, sunglasses on and face unreadable. “Emma Frost is always one to look out for,” she said, answering the question in the Professor’s eyes.

“Is that your personal or professional opinion?”

“Both,” she replied. “She has the knowledge, ability, clearance, and motivation to strike a crippling blow to the X-Men, but...”

Her words held him in rapt attention. “Go on.”

“... but the probability of that is low. Her mannerisms--introspectiveness, momentary confusion, mood swings--indicate a certain level of preoccupation, which in and of itself is not associated with the White Queen. The same aloofness held true for our exchange earlier today, and while these may be suspicious signs any other time, her excursion with Shadowcat and Psylocke adequately explain her changes. Therefore, my assessment of her would be ‘unthreatening.’ Since we are under a presumable time constraint and combing for enemies amongst our own, which in and of itself takes time, I suggest we remove her from our list of suspects.”

Charles clasped his hands and nodded slowly. “Good. Continue with your impeccable work, Tessa. I would like our potential saboteur to be quietly dealt with before I take my leave of absence. Are you sure you can handle this without anyone else’s help?”

“Positive--I will have their identity by Saturday. There are only three more people I have to observe.”

“They would be?”

“Jean Grey, Kuan-Yin Xorn, and Remy LeBeau.”

*****************

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Chicago, one Doctor Isa Hayes packed up the last of his belongings. Scratch that--more like belongings the goons of Frost Enterprises didn’t rip from his hands yesterday. His lifelong research, gone in one night. Government agencies would’ve set him up for life because of his schematics; radical activists would’ve killed for five minutes with his program suite. Instead now, all of it fell into the lap of a corporation because, in his desperation two years ago, he’d signed over the rights to his intellectual property so he could get funding. While everyone else laughed him off, calling his theories and methods ludicrous, Frost Enterprises backed him and never questioned him.

So why did he get fired? Because he did a favor for the owner of the multi-billion dollar conglomerate? Bullshit, but nonetheless, bullshit he’d have to take because he was one of the “little people,” one of those honest, hard working Joes who got trampled under the stiletto heeled feet of the powerful. Not for the first time, he wondered if his firing was a well-orchestrated plot to strip him of his most prized possession, and the more he mulled over this possibility, the more he found it sensible. However, he dared not let the outrage show for fear of the hulking security baboons looming outside his office door.

Well, at least they left him a shred of dignity by letting him pack up his things in private. “Twenty minutes,” one of the simpletons grunted, “And don’t take no company property either.”

Isa felt it wise to not mention the idiot’s use of double negatives. He wouldn’t get grammar, nor the cruel reality that his security job was just as easily swept aside as a researcher’s blood, sweat, and tears, if not more so.

Three cardboard boxes. Doctor Isa Hayes, Harvard graduate, boiled down to three lousy boxes containing reference texts, coffee mugs, pencils, and an optical mouse. They even took his precious notebooks, citing something in his contract about his doodles being potential leaks of Frost Enterprises’ investment. Yes, some contained formulas, but did they also have to “repossess” his daily planner? The grocery list didn’t have sensitive material, only how much juice to get by week’s end.

Bastards. All of them. Fucking bastards.

Between his mental cursing, the unexpected happened: the phone rang.

Who would be calling him now? He almost didn’t answer, but his curious nature got the best of him. “Hello?”

“Doctor Hayes,” a distorted, male voice greeted, “Would you like to destroy the mutant who ruined your life?”

“Wait a second, who is this?”

“Does my identity matter? Your mortgage payments are coming up, your pièce de résistance is gone, and I offer you a way to reclaim lost glory. Revenge, contrary to what people say, is a dish best served immediately, repeatedly, and with a side of wrath. So old chap, should we get cooking?”

“I…”

Years of conforming to scientific integrity ate at him. Not only was accepting this offer unprofessional, it was also extremely dangerous. Mutant? What mutant ruined him? Henry McCoy? Who was talking on the other end of the line? Was this a joke? Even worse, maybe the crazy man really meant what he said. Isa didn’t have the information to make a good decision, but yet, he found himself drawn to this stranger’s ideas. He had nothing to lose: no family to think about, no colleagues who’d help him, and most importantly, no job to keep himself afloat. He had a bone to pick and now, a means to pick the bone with.

“Will I get back my research?” he asked hesitantly.

“Why yes.”

Isa bit his bottom lip as the phone shook in his grasp.

The voice chuckled. “Time’s up, and I guess you’re not interested. Too bad, your genius would’ve made setting up the genetic templates so much easier.”

Setting up genetic templates? “You have my materials already?!”

Silence on the other end.

“I’ll do it!” he yelled. “Did you hear me?! I’ll do it!”

The laughing came back. “That’s better, Doctor Hayes. Now, leave like good little ex-employee, and I will contact you soon enough.”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 10

Title: Straight, No Chaser

Chapter 9: Straight, No Chaser

Outside Emma’s room, Betsy hesitated mid-knock. She’d been off kilter, acting unusually around the Professor, Brian, and pretty much everyone else. On the origins of her thoughts she had no doubt, but what to do? She exchanged aspects of herself with Emma. If she removed those aspects, would they be lost forever, essentially killing a part of the other woman? No answers cropped up, but a bunch of concerns did.

And Betsy found herself immensely concerned with a certain blonde’s welfare. Honestly, more than once she drifted onto an Emma tangent, and try she might, she couldn’t stop her treasonous mind. Emma this, Emma that, what would Emma do, would Emma say this, were these Emma’s ideas, that reminds me of Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma.

This was an obsession bordering on stalker-like behavior, and Elisabeth Braddock NEVER, EVER obsessed. Best option now was to see Emma, psychically straighten each other, and pretend last night didn’t happened. Obsession wasn’t healthy; neither was an identity crisis.

Resolve hardened, Betsy knocked, and no one answered.

Stupid. Emma didn’t sit in her room all day and wait for people to drop by. Stupid. Using her regained telepathy seemed like the easiest way to locate Emma, but a fear sent shivers up her spine. Nonsense and stupid fear, but a fear nonetheless. The few times Betsy had used her telepathy earlier in the day, a mysterious, foreign presence loomed in the background, and despite the unthreatening aura it exuded, her time with the Shadow King reminded her of more malevolent beings.

Oh yeah, the extra intruder was one disturbing addition. Maybe the thing belonged to Emma, a specter she hid away from everyone who’d ever known her. Maybe it was the Shadow King again--besides, you could never truly destroy energy, so quoeth Forge when he got on one of his techno tirades. Instead of investigating the oddity, Betsy ignored it. In her experience, investigating things tended to blow up in her face, and leaving problems to fester--while not appealing--did work out much better. Just look at what happened when she and Kwannon got to finding out what Spiral really did to them: Kwannon ended up dead and Betsy herself found out her body wasn’t her own. With Mojo’s handiwork in mind, Psylocke built the highest, strongest, and quickest defense she could, stopped using her telepathy, and went about her business.

She hoped against hope that this was Emma’s problem and the blonde would take it back, no questions asked.

But Emma wasn’t in at the moment, and since Betsy didn’t want to use her powers, well, that meant no Emma. Betsy found herself stuck between disappointed and elated; true to the attitude she’d adopted, she skipped asking questions and went directly to being elated over being elated. When you’d gone through as much as she had, you take joy wherever it’s found.

With the object of her search absent, her room in utter disorder, and herself antsy from dinner, Betsy slipped outside the mansion to walk off her excess energy and rediscover Westchester’s magnificent scenery. Although currently lacking white, snow covered majesty, the evergreen trees, lush grass, and pale moonlight painted the mansion grounds like a serene nature masterpiece. Worries washed out into the landscape, blasted away by the first bites of the chilly winter wind.

Having lived here for so long, she knew the surroundings by heart and allowed her feet to carry her wherever they pleased. Wrapped in the mansion’s ambience, she worked on tuning out her higher thoughts, allowing herself to just be. It was like her craving for dangerous action: the odd dichotomy of vulnerability and openness freed her. At the height of combat, her spirit slipped away, and with both body and soul left on their own, the separate entities stretched their proverbial legs, rejuvenating her when they later returned and always leaving her wanting more.

Did Emma feel that way when she assumed her diamond form?

No, no, no, there she was again. Frustrated, Betsy rubbed her temples. She needed Emma now, and they had to stop her stumbling, bumbling, straying mind. Christ, she hated being so needy. Maybe if they hadn’t made such a mess in each other’s heads last night she’d be less ambivalent about these Emma thoughts, but they did make a mess, and the sympathy she felt a day ago didn’t return today.

On top of her uncooperative self, she contended with her overprotective brother, a mansion full of unexplainable drama (if Warren was any indication), a potential touch and go counseling appointment with Scott, the inevitable awkwardness when she’d run into Beast, a seemingly incredibly manipulative Professor, the prerequisite background murmurs that haunted every X-Man who came back after an absence, and where the hell was she?

The mansion, showing only its roof and chimney, peeked over a crop of trees. Further away was the outdoor pool, but between building and body of water stood a small gazebo. Long ago, before the pool broke this part of the property’s privacy, a then amorous couple put it up for their own romantic getaways, but since then, it served as a well-traversed rest area. During warmer months, busy teachers, tired students, and mansion guests could be found lounging on the gazebo’s wooden bench or, in the case of Remy and Logan, smoking as they leaned against the railing.

Today, Emma Frost sat on the bench, her legs crossed and a decanter of amber liquor by her side. Her white cashmere sweater and matching leather pants accented her flawless body, and even in such a relaxed state, the blonde oozed her trademark sex appeal. She held two glasses--one in each hand--and looked to be expecting company.

Betsy took the unspoken invitation and joined Emma. Wordlessly, the blonde gave her the glass from her left and sipped from the one in her right. Even far away, the alcohol’s heady, pungent aroma made Betsy smile: Remy Martin Louis XIII Cognac, perhaps the finest and certainly one of the most expensive drinks in existence.

Now Betsy wasn’t unfamiliar with booze, but she certainly hadn’t drank enough to identify Louis XIII on smell alone. If her memory didn’t betray her, she’d say she never had any of this stuff.

Another Emma tangent and in the presence of Emma no less. Time to get her life back on track before she turned into Emma.

“You knew I was coming,” Betsy observed as she eyed the booze.

“I had a feeling,” Emma said, “Wanted to find out if it was just a feeling or something else.”

“And?”

She sipped, closing her eyes to savor the alcohol. “It’s something else. I’m precognitive.”

Precognition. One of Betsy’s old powers before the Shadow King changed everything. She wasn’t on the magnitude of Destiny, but on rare occasions, she got vague but incredibly accurate inklings. It wasn’t something she controlled, but the ability held a dear place in her heart, and now, it got transferred to Emma.

“Just bloody peachy,” Betsy sighed.

About the aforementioned foreign presence? Yeah, that, it didn’t go away. Every second with Emma, the thing grew in her mind’s horizon, begging for attention like a bloated corpse. Took Betsy some effort to ignore it, effort she didn’t have.

“What’s the matter?” asked Emma, noticing her companion’s uneven breaths. “Scared? Confused? You’re projecting an awful lot of emotions and you haven’t even taken a drink yet.”

“If I’m being so obvious, then you should know why I’m like this. I’m turning into you because I have enough problems of my own to deal with. I don’t need whatever is happening to me--to us--right now. We meshed our minds together, so we can separate ourselves again, this time correctly.”

Emma didn’t seem fazed at the request, only intrigued. “What’s wrong with us now, Betsy? Just last night you were telling me how much you understood me and the comfort we could give each other. You’re strong, strong enough to survive what Belasco did to you and whatever dangers the X-Men have encountered. Instead, I take one look at you now and you’re broken. Your mental shields are so high, you’re almost psi-mute. You’re so nervous, I can almost taste it. What happened? Elisabeth Braddock would never run from her problems like a coward.”

Amidst the strained ignoring of her psychic invader, Betsy gathered enough of her wits to say, “Emma Grace Frost, like a coward, never faced her problems.”

“I had no one to turn to,” the White Queen parried, “My brother was committed, I left my sham of a family, the Hellfire Club didn’t leave much room for trust, and most people here still think I’m the enemy. Tell me, which executioner should I ask for the next time I need help?”

Betsy turned away from Emma’s intense stare.

“I thought so,” the blonde continued. “You’re different, and you have no excuse for not dealing. Your twin brother desperately wants to help you. You could ask any X-Man and they’ll lay down their life for you. Happened before with the Crimson Dawn and will happen again if you say the words.”

“Then I’m saying it now: help me separate you from me.”

Years of communicating with adolescent children prevented Emma from throwing her glass of cognac into the ground, but she didn’t want the temptation. She moved the decanter out of arm’s reach and set her drink down.

Some people could be so aggravating.

“Have you given a second’s thought to our situation?”

“Are you kidding me?” scoffed Betsy, “This is the only thing I’ve been thinking about the entire day. I can’t go two steps without attaching your face to a thought.”

Yes, people could be aggravating and stupid. “I’m touched that you think of me so much, but I’m talking about the ramifications of yesterday. As far as I can tell, our powers are genetic, so how did they get swapped? On top of our powers, abilities also got switched. Suddenly, I can fight like you. My muscles react like yours, guiding me when my brain can’t even process it all. Our minds fused, not our bodies. I ran a DNA scan at the medlabs this afternoon, and it says I am completely me.”

The being outside of Betsy’s shields clamored away, relentlessly testing her shoddy barriers.

“Do you know about my psychic rapport with your brother? No doubt you left some of that one behind and I can’t believe you haven’t caught onto it. Seems like I know him better than you, because I feel his disappointment and helplessness from here. What did you say to the man? And why do I want to hurt you for hurting him?”

Pieces fells away, but Betsy wouldn’t have any of it. She sealed the breaches as best she could, standing tall against both this thing and Emma’s onslaught.

“Did you ask yourself any of these questions? Did you even look within yourself? We don’t share memories any more, but if my mind is any indication, we still share emotions. If you run and hide, this free-floating mess is going to drive you insane. It’s just going to gnaw away at you as your mind reaches to connect feelings it can’t put into context.”

Unlike Emma, Betsy didn’t have the woman’s restraint. Her glass of cognac went careening into the gazebo’s deck. “I’m dealing and I’m asking you for help! Where have you been? I don’t want your sermon! I just want to be myself again!”

The blonde’s free hand darted up and caught Betsy’s wrist. “Be yourself again?” she sneered. “Feel this,” she pressed, putting the wrist up to eye level, “Feel this and tell me if you have a pulse. Hate to burst your bubble, but you’re never going to be yourself again.”

“We can try-”

“No,” Emma cut in, “Don’t say it anymore. Too much can go wrong if we separate from each other again. Our changes go beyond physical and mental levels, and I see a very real possibility of us fouling up and not coming out alive. What if one consciousness becomes dominant? What if we destroy each other? What if we worsen our minds?”

The truth hurts. Whereas a lie can be disproved, the truth persists. You can accept it, hide from it, or be consumed by it. Betsy was in a hiding mood; too bad Emma wasn’t.

Imagine the White Queen’s razor sharp wits bolstered by Psylocke’s gall and assassin’s mentality. Imagine that formidable combination focused against an Emma Frost without her air of superiority and an Elisabeth Braddock without a means of escape. Imagine dealing with a White Queen in full “bitch” mode while holding off a persistent telepathic assault.

A slight gasp escaped Betsy, the first sign her mental resistances crumbled. Her vision blurred as the release of psychic energies washed over her. A splitting headache dizzied her, and oh my, the floor sure moved fast for dead wood. Before she could hold an impromptu conference with the remains of her cognac, Emma reached out and kept her from falling.

On contact, a sharp spike of power pulled their astral forms from their bodies and left both wide-eyed women staring at each other.

*You,* said Betsy, devoid of ill will, *You were the one in my mind.*

If she wasn’t busy being awestruck at their sudden state of being, Emma would’ve answered. More than a psychic rapport but less than yesterday’s complete merging, their current--and very sudden--connection allowed thoughts and feelings to breeze back and forth like a constantly open mind link. It was like connection two bodies of water, their essences mixing but still remaining separate entities. Betsy shimmered, images of her current ideas and sensations overlaying her astral form.

Her eyes unclearly watching shards of broken glass glisten in alcohol.

Her frustration of never truly being Elisabeth Braddock, instead always Captain Britain’s sister, Psylocke, or now, threatening to become Emma Frost’s shadow.

Emma’s thought-to-be subtle, inquiring mental prodding revealed themselves as withering assaults. The blonde didn’t call to Betsy out of malice but rather out of true curiosity: she felt an unfinished bond between them and ventured to discover more about it. Only she didn’t know her strength, nor did she take into account Betsy’s fragileness. Augmented by the Shadow King’s power, those gentle taps against Betsy’s shields translated into hammering blows. To worsen matters, judging how freely telepathy operated between them, Emma was certain they were more easily susceptible to each other’s powers, further acerbating matters.

Hence the wince and the *I’m sorry, Betsy.*

And Emma was an open book to Betsy as well. Yelling, screaming, threats, attacks, anger, and hate tended to melt away when confronted with genuine concern, and while the blonde generally didn’t show it, she couldn’t hide it here. Not that Betsy wasn’t a bit peeved, but her apology and transparent thoughts went a long way to earning forgiveness.

See Emma mull over yesterday. See Emma search self for answers. See Emma find some answers. See Emma want to share those answers. See Emma puzzled over Betsy’s defensiveness. See Emma get flash of precognition. Finally, see Emma confront Betsy for what’s believed to be her own good.

Kind of hard to get mad over that, especially now since the mysterious, domineering presence turned out to be Emma and… and…

*Do you think we separate out our selves now?*

Emma couldn’t say no anymore. Lodged in Betsy’s astral form were aspects of Emma she readily identified and vice versa--they appeared to be hodge-podge mixtures of each other. Already bonded so closely, exchanging snippets of consciousness a little a time seemed feasible.

Bowing her head, Emma assented. *You realize we have no clue what we’re doing.*

*No, we did this before.*

*Tell me how that turned out.*

*Well,* Betsy smiled, *third time’s the charm.*

*For you maybe.* Ditching the humor, Emma glided to her companion and took her hand. *Ready?*

*Ready as I’ll ever be.*

They expected resistance. They expected difficulties. They expected Emma’s dry wit and Betsy’s killer instinct to put up a fight. They got none of it.

Betsy blinked. *Kind of anti-climatic.*

*Nothing wrong with anti-climatic, but...*

*But?*

*Are you disturbed at how easy the process is?*

*Mildly.*

*Same here, and that’s what has me worried.*

*You never stop worrying.*

*It’s my job as an educator, businesswoman, and mutant.*

*Then maybe you should take a vacation.*

*Look who’s talking,* Emma chuckled. *Didn’t your brother invite you to one at dinner?*

*I would’ve said yes if I didn’t have to contend with your stubbornness and my short temperament.*

*So now I’m at fault?*

*Can’t I blame it on your personality?*

*Subtly isn’t your strong suit, Elisabeth.*

*Fine, you want me to say it? It’s your bloody fault.*

*Excellent dear, now do me a favor: crawl back into the grave.*

*And miss wiping the smile off your diamond crusted face? Never.*

*But you love diamonds. You can’t get enough of them and you can’t get enough of me. You’re like a stupid pup, always coming back for more.*

*More of what? Abuse?*

*Don’t hide it, Elisabeth. You weren’t shy last night.*

*Just like you to take everything sexually like a… a…*

*Oh, please do continue. You wanted to say slut, huh? The word hit a little too close to home for you? Sounds like what some of your cherished X-friends said of you not long ago?*

*Shut up!*

*Make me. I’m in your mind. I’m in your soul. You can’t shut me up.*

*Emma!*

*Don’t Emma me, I’m not the one who got us into this fine mess to-*

*EMMA!*

*What?!*

Betsy motioned to herself. *We’re back to our old selves.*

Emma’s turn to blink, and what would you know, no traces of Betsy lingered on her astral projection. She had her swagger back, her icy exterior back, and not to mention her sharpened tongue back too.

*Hmph,* the blonde sighed. *The pieces of us trapped in each other must have an affinity for the originals…*

*Are you ready to cut the link? I’ve had too much drama for one day.*

The gazebo came back into focus for both women. Neither could be happier--it was like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, and unlike the king’s men, Emma and Betsy succeeded. Their petty blow up aside, this encounter ended quite well, but there was a loose end.

“Betsy, I can still feel you.”

The British woman touched their mental bond. “It’s still strong too.”

Tumblers rolled around in Emma’s head until her mind clicked her free floating ideas into place. “The bond, it’s like the-”

“Stepford Cuckoos,” Betsy finished.

“So we’re still open books to each other.” And for not the first time, anxiousness simmered inside Emma. So what if Betsy was equally vulnerable? The White Queen never let her guard down to anyone. ANYONE.

“Even with someone who shared your mind?” Betsy noted dryly.

The cold retorted didn’t come out; instead, the genuine Emma made a rare cameo. “No point in denying it.”

Stretching and hearing the creaks in her neck, Betsy stifled a yawn. “Maybe we’ll be better off after a good night’s sleep.”

“Agreed,” nodded Emma. “I want to make one thing clear though,” she added as Betsy prepared to leave, “We respect each other’s privacy. We’re experienced telepaths, so it shouldn’t be difficult. Keep to your mind and I’ll keep to mine, which means no unsuspecting scanning of thoughts, manipulation of opinions, or-”

“Finishing of sentences,” Betsy said. She flashed a brief smile at Emma’s darkened expression. “I share your same concerns. Anything else?”

“Let’s meet again tomorrow. I want to try some exercises on us, some of the same ones I’ve been working with the Stepfords.”

“Well, you know where to find me.”

“Funny, Elisabeth.”

“Lighten up, Emma.”

“Not before you.”

They paused mid-conversation before it degenerated into another sniping match.

“This,” laughed Betsy, “looks like the beginning of a horrible relationship.”

“If we don’t kill each other first.” Rising to her feet, Emma gathered her decanter and remaining glass in her hands. Her gaze landed on the spilled Remy Martin. “Pity,” she lamented, “That was excellent cognac.”

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 11

Title: The Grinch

Chapter 10: The Grinch

Speaking of the Stepford Cuckoos, one Esme Stepford kept a sharp lookout as she slinked around the escalator. The sisters, accompanied by Sam Guthrie who took the place of Emma Frost (she was preoccupied and all), went to see a new Christmas movie. Of course, a stop by the mall was needed, what with presents to buy and sales to be had. While Celeste, Sophie, and Mindee prowled the shops, Phoebe--who admitted her crush on the mansion’s favorite down-home boy--spent an awful lot of time hanging with the flustered Sam. And in the shuffle, Esme slipped away.

Unlike her sisters, she had grander goals in mind. Forget the shopping and movie watching and boy chasing--pointless rubbish, all of it, and Esme never believed in pointless rubbish. Why live like a human when you were clearly much better? All her childhood she wished to be normal, but now, with a new cause guiding her, she shed her immature wants and turned to a higher calling, one which would free mutantkind from oppression.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a boy in a wheelchair rolling up to her. His distinctive size, big Macy’s bag, and none too stealthy disguise disgusted Esme, but what can you do when you’re a genius dealing with simpletons?

With sweetness belying her thoughts, the wayward Stepford spread her arms out and enveloped the boy. “Timmy!” she squealed in mock delight.

“Damn you,” the boy very quietly sneered.

Having garnered a series of warm smiles from passersby, Esme got behind the wheelchair and started pushing it toward the parking structure.

“Do you have my Christmas present, Toad?”

The disguised Toad patted the bag.

“Good. How many this time?”

“Last you for months. Get you a big Kick for a long time.”

“Idiot,” she hissed into his ear, “I said how many, not how long.”

“You so smart, then you count for yourself.”

Angrily, she snatched the bag from Toad and backed away. “Don’t you get lost on your way out.”

“And don’t ruin the plan,” he warned. “Master doesn’t like failure.”

Master… right. She was surrounded by idiots.

Before her sisters could get suspicious, Esme left Toad to his own devices and sought to rejoin her entourage. There was plenty to do and not enough time.

*****************

Lorna took a hit.

*****************

A shot glass thunked onto the counter. Shifting of a bottle, then amber liquid refilled the shot glass. Kitty stared at the whiskey for a split second before throwing it back and sighing at the warm burn.

“You drinking alone or can anyone else join?”

Kitty smiled at the newly arrived Rachel and plucked another shot glass from the cupboard. “If you feel like standing up to Logan’s wrath, then be my guest.”

The red head’s eyes bulged. “Oh no, you didn’t-”

“I did, but I’m considering this more of a borrowing with intent to compensate after a lengthy period of time.”

“You stole Logan’s stash,” she muttered. Surreptitiously, she glanced around the communal kitchen, saw no one else, and glared at Kitty. “Well?” she grinned, tapping her shot glass, “What are you waiting for? Ol’ grizzle to find out?”

The two women giggled as they consumed the ill-gotten alcohol. There’d been enough crying, reminiscing, and arguing today for Kitty, and to just kick back and live, that brought a spark to her heart.

Well, that is, before she thought about the act of kicking back and living. Illyana’s last wish, and here she was doing it, but whenever she thought about Illyana, those sad eyes and gasping last breaths tore her sails asunder.

How could she live when her best friend’s dying moments haunted her?

“Hey, Pryde,” said Rachel as she wiggled her empty glass, “Didn’t tell you to stop.”

Pulling herself out of the funk, Kitty kept the booze flowing but the laughter came in short supply. Rachel, who bumped into Kurt who talked with Logan, knew of Kitty’s unhappiness and was actually unhappy herself. Why, you ask?

“Kitty, am I your friend?”

The question out of left field brought the brunette’s mind back to earth. “Of course you are,” she replied, unhesitant.

“Then how come you didn’t tell me?”

Kitty didn’t like where this was going, so she played dumb... which despite everyone trying it, never worked and only made matters worse. “Tell you what?”

“About Illyana. About why you’re depressed. About why you’re drinking yourself stupid in the kitchen. Except for the drinking part, I had to hear everything from Kurt. Now you’re pretending like nothing happened? I thought we were closer than that, Kitty. If you need help, you know I’m here for you, no questions asked.”

“You can’t help me, Rachel. What’s the use of heaping my problems onto you? I love you too much to do that.”

“So you don’t even tell me?!” the red head snapped. “I’m watching a bottle of whiskey help you! How come I can’t?! I can telepathically dull the pain! I can make you forget!”

“It’s not personal-”

“Yes it is! It’s as personal as you can get because you personally told me nothing!”

Kitty let out an exasperated breath. Maybe the whiskey went to her head, but if Rachel wanted the truth, she could have it in spades. “This is exactly what I tried to avoid with you. You always get like this, Rachel, all yelling and shouting and none of it helps. You think throwing your powers around is going to fix everything, but it doesn’t. Say you do make me forget about Illyana. Next time someone mentions her, I’m going to get curious, ask around, break down, and end up even worse than before.”

“That won’t happen because-”

“NO. It will because I’m not the kind of person to let things go and I would never betray Illyana’s memory like that.”

“Then tell me how I can make things better.”

“YOU CAN’T!” screamed Kitty. When the outrage left her, she shrunk back into her seat and softly said, “I loved Illyana...”

“Everyone knows that.”

“No one knows I loved her,” the brunette sighed. “I didn’t want to just be friends.”

Rachel blinked, confused. “What do you mean you didn’t want.... Oh.”

Marvel Girl--the woman had a mind to move mountains, but when it came to the obvious, she fell on her frontal lobe.

“Why didn’t you tell her, Kitty?”

Did someone hear a brain hit the floor? Quick, clean up, aisle four!

“Hello? Peter? The rest of the X-Men?” groaned a frustrated Kitty. “And I’m sure Illyana never felt that way about me. I was her sister, not her girlfriend. Face it, the relationship would’ve awkward at best and apocalyptic at worst.”

“So.... you got with Peter because he was the next best thing?”

Just smearing the mess, wasn’t she? “How can you say that, Rachel?!”

“What? It’s a valid question. If you loved Illyana then why did you hang onto Peter? And Pete Wisdom too.” Rachel’s mind connected a bunch of random, madcap dots, fitting pieces where they shouldn’t have fitted. “Ah, wait, I get it now! You loved Illyana but couldn’t have her, so you convinced yourself you loved Peter. When Peter was gone, you used Pete as a substitute for Peter. Then, when Pete wasn’t close enough to Peter, you broke up with him!”

The loud slap of a forehead hitting the kitchen counter reverberated through the halls.

“Poor Kitty, that sounded painful. Here,” said Rachel, pouring her friend another shot, “I don’t think Logan will mind anymore. We had too much already.”

A mumbled thanks came up from under the pile of hair. As Kitty, head still down, fumbled for the drink, she latched onto something distinctly un-shot-glass-like. Felt more along the lines of Rachel’s dainty hand. Kitty peeked up to see a smiling red head.

“Rachel, where’s my whiskey?”

Almost heard gears grinding the way Rachel flipped dispositions. “If we hurry, we can catch Harry’s three-for-one!”

Something unsettling was the impetus behind that smile, but having imbibed so much of Logan’s whiskey, Kitty couldn’t put her finger on it. Why the sudden happy-happy mood? What happened to the last shot of booze? And Harry’s had three-for-ones tonight?

Rachel tightened her hand on Kitty’s and whisked them out the kitchen door without cleaning their mess. While drinking in and of itself never solved anything, overindulging with a friend tended to chase the bad memories away for an extended period of time. If nothing else, drinking with a friend usually resulted in good stories to tell.

Two hot, single, female, semi-depressed, emotionally unstable, half-inebriated, famous mutants hitting up a bar in the dead of night? Stuff legends were made of.

Logan walked into the kitchen and grimaced at the near-empty bottle mocking him from the counter. He sniffed the air and his frown deepened.

“Kid’s got some explainin’ to do.”

Like a tired father, he shoved the dirty glasses into the dishwasher and polished off the remains of his whiskey. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and chuckled.

“Least she didn’t find my good stuff.”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 12

Title: A Simple Matter of Trust

Chapter 11: A Simple Matter of Trust

“Dodge.”

“Your left.”

“He’s going to kick.”

“Strike now.”

“Strike!”

“Watch out for the-”

Emma’s backside crashed onto the mat, jarring her senses and making stars appear. Her familiar enemy from the CQC program stood over her, that confident, cocky sneer plastered on his face. Even with Betsy barking advice from the sidelines, he railroaded her… three times in a row.

“Convinced?” puffed Emma, who couldn’t immediately find the strength to lift herself from the ground.

“So sue me for having faith in your abilities.”

Our heroines, thanks to their superior coordination (which was thanks to their buzzing mental link) beat the morning rush to the Danger Room and locked up the facility for themselves. Because of Betsy’s insistence that Emma’s fighting skills were adequate enough to stumble through the CQC program, they’d spent the better part of an hour testing the theory.

“I can’t believe none of me rubbed off on you,” Betsy shook her head as she helped Emma up.

“Why’s that?”

“Your attitude rubbed off on me. Just this morning I wanted to storm into Logan’s room and skewer him for lighting up his cheap cigar so bloody early.”

Rubbing her painful forearm, the blonde grimaced. “An eternal smoker like him should have better taste, but that’s beside the point.” She went to the Danger Room’s user panel and opened a new scenario, one with the raging assailants replaced by a pure white, seemingly continuous room. “I want to try exchanging skills under a controlled environment.”

Betsy eyed Emma dubiously. “Tempting fate again?”

“So says the self-admitted action junkie.”

“And where’s the adrenaline?”

“In the discovery and honing of one’s powers. We grow and we change--adapting should be one of the greatest thrills of all. We, my dear Betsy, have more than just our psychic rapport to explore.”

Did Emma just offer her guidance and support? I mean, it sounded remarkably like an offer, or was it more an open invitation? Stop Betsy, you’re not a giddy schoolgirl and Emma’s just being nice. Too nice. Un-Emma nice. Actually, more like un-White Queen nice since deep down, Emma was a fundamentally good person, but, well...

Never say Elisabeth Braddock looked a gift horse in the mouth.

Enough thinking. “Thank you,” she replied.

“I’m an educator,” the blonde said, shaking off the cobwebs, “My job is to help. And really, I should be thanking you for not only reminding me of that but also offering a hand to me. I’m… I’m… grateful.”

The uncomfortable silence made each woman shuffle about, filling the Danger Room simulation with ambient noise as they waited for enough time for the awkwardness to pass. Thoroughly satisfied after lowering the temperature, Emma gracefully sat herself down.

“Sit and we can begin.”

Not allowing much room for argument there.

“Another shortcoming of being an educator: we detest uncooperative pupils.”

Betsy arched her brow. “Didn’t we agree to keep out of each other’s heads?”

Behind that dispassionate face lurked a hint of amusement. A smile didn’t tug at her lips but her eyes did sparkle like diamonds. Her too rigid posture betrayed the bit of effort to control herself, and try as she might pass it off as her attempt at meditation, Betsy knew better. She knew Emma too well now.

“You... you...” Betsy couldn’t come up the proper description for Emma. On one hand, the slight was so subtle. On the other hand, Emma took pleasure in the small, unwitting victories.

She wasn’t a bitch, but she wasn’t a harmless jester either. Sheesh, talk about abrupt about face--grateful to grating in two seconds flat.

“Elisabeth, you’re thinking too hard. Open yourself and let the thoughts come to you.”

Aggravating, just absolutely aggravating. Who knew a playful Emma Frost could be more petty than the White Queen?

Before Emma could open her mouth again, Betsy silenced her with a glare. “Don’t say another word. Pretend we’re mature women here to learn about our powers.”

If Emma was a better person, she’d resist a parting jab, but she wasn’t. “What else were we doing?” she innocently asked.

Shying from the bait, Betsy sat across from Emma and adopted her meditative state. The blonde followed suit, and in no time, they once again met on the astral plane.

Emma seized the initiative. *We should start with your fighting abilities.*

*Admit it. You enjoyed kicking ass.*

*That I did, despite you putting it so crudely.* Slipping into her teaching persona, the blonde stilled herself and motioned for Betsy to come closer. *Now, if you’re done observing how I stay sane in this mutant madhouse, start giving an astral form to your martial arts skills.*

*I’m hardly a telepathic neophyte, Emma.*

*Then show me you’re not.*

Always a challenge with Emma. If not challenge, then a competition. What? Was the White Queen not good enough? All her life she’d proven the entire world wrong, and yet, every day, she woke up with a chip on her shoulder and a point to drive home.

Like clockwork, Emma caught on to Betsy’s thoughts. *The day you’re good enough is the day you die.*

*You need to learn to live in the moment and appreciate what you have.*

*So I should turn into a hedonistic daredevil like you?*

*Better than the guarded island you are now.* Betsy reached forward, but her hand met resistance mere inches from Emma’s face. *Just like I suspected,* she said, stepping away and folding her arms. *I was wondering why I couldn’t get a good read on you. Your attitude is why this exercise of yours won’t work. You’re sealed up like Fort Knox, and I’m not forcing my way in, however simple or difficult it might be. You think you get let your guard down for a split second, absorbed my abilities, and be on your merry way? What’s the point if you’re so defensive? For once in your life, let go and mean it. You’re in no position to help me if you don’t even trust me.*

*I’m keeping my proper distance-*

*If you’re keeping your distance, then you shouldn’t be reading my mind.*

*In case you didn’t know, you’re doing a wonderful job projecting your thoughts.*

*I’m keeping my mind open to you. You don’t have to peek. Are you saying you lack the self-control to not snoop around? You’re suppose to be the cold, indifferent one here, not me.* Betsy’s astral form shimmered, blurring her inner most memories into a montage on her body. *You’ve seen what I am, and I’ve seen what you are. Where’s the problem? Why the hesitation? Every time we take a step forward, you’re reluctant to come along or you’re pulling back. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?*

*You’ve seen why-*

*Despite our bond, we are different people who cope differently. I understand why you’re unsure: everyone has somehow let you down or left you. The Hellfire Club, your family, the Hellions, even Generation X--all out of your life, and each void hurt because you cared too much. I understand why you’re guarded. I don’t have to like it though. I don’t have to believe it’s the best solution.*

*Suddenly you’re the one with all the answers when yesterday you wouldn’t even acknowledge me hammering at your mind?*

*Don’t you forget, I’m not the type to hide from adversity. I got that habit from you.* Though the mood stayed tense, Betsy managed a tight smile. *I seem to remember a very similar talk, only our roles were reversed.*

Did I mention Emma hated being goaded? Well, no, but you can imagine a cutthroat businesswoman, self-assured mutant, and the White Queen wouldn’t like being manipulated into someone else’s purposes. By nature, Emma was just too suspicious to accept help because, according to her experience, there always were strings attached. Sure, she appreciated Betsy’s actions, but when did Emma accept the offered help? Never, that’s when.

A certain exception named Charles Xavier came to mind, but he was a slithering, bald headed, two faced snake.

So here was Betsy, standing high and dry, doing her best impression of the Summers patriarch. If Emma was just a hair more impulsive, she would’ve shown the other woman a piece of her mind... after ejecting it out her ear with a well-placed blast of telepathy. Lucky for Betsy, Emma wasn’t (too) impulsive, and those words she spoke held some merit to them. Kind of pointless to be secretive around someone who knew all your secrets already. Conventional wisdom would say to make this work the best they could. Getting their state of being sorted out now was probably the best course of action.

Beat exploring new boundaries while battling a sworn enemy.

Exhaling and then relaxing herself, Emma willed her shields away. *Try to act like you know what you’re doing.*

*That’s the thing about this psychic rapport: you know when I’m acting.*

*Way to promote my peace of mind.*

*Emma, you’re stalling, and I don’t need powers to see that.*

Ignoring the rest of the blonde’s scathing chatter, Betsy proceeded to gather years of instruction and practice into... well, she didn’t know quite into what yet. She never had to visualize an individual facet of herself into her astral projection, and to make matters worse, she’d been without telepathy for ages, making her a tad bit rusty at all this.

Had to start somewhere though.

*Maybe deconstruction will work again,* she thought to herself. Seeping into Emma’s consciousness proved doable, but the trick this time was to package specific aspects of herself and send it to another. That detailed packaging required mental strength, a clear sense of self, and favorable conditions--guess which two Betsy didn’t have at the moment?

Frowning, Emma cleared her throat to get her companion’s attention. *Don’t sell yourself short. You’re one of the most talented telepaths on the face of this planet, and mark my words, you have the ability. This is the exact reverse of what we did yesterday.*

*Like a teacher lecturing a student,* muttered Betsy who rolled her eyes for good measure.

Speed. Her hallmark: lightning reflexes, nimble footwork, and frustrating elusiveness. Honed to near perfection, her body kept time with the deadliest of mutant fighters, two resounding defeats by Sabertooth and Vargas notwithstanding.

Stealth. Under the Mandarin and the Hand, she developed into an assassin, adding a killer instinct and a knack for surprises into her technique. Unexpected attacks, deceptive shifts in position, and knowledge of the battlefield made her into a hunting machine.

Freedom. In her youth, her non-existent fighting ability was the source of much self-derision. She swore she would be able to protect herself and augmented her old X-Men costume with clumsy body armor. After Kwannon... after Matsu’o... after Spiral... she didn’t need her armor anymore. Her body used to house her weapon: her mind. Afterwards, her body became the weapon, became one with her mind. She never told anyone, but she was ecstatic to get rid of her old outfit. Now, she felt free, like her body could finally achieve what her mind had been born with.

Speed. Stealth. Freedom. Three words embodying her fighting prowess. Years spent reveling in her craft, and through it all, her current, and almost ever-present, costume followed her. She had to hand it to Matsu’o--the lecherous bastard knew how make combat comfortable. She poured a carefully measured portion of herself into the isolated image. Her mind strained at the unnatural state she forced it into. She fought against the urge to reclaim her skills, expending more and more power and concentration to keep herself in her precarious position.

Meanwhile, Emma buffed her nails. An uninformed observer would’ve called her heartless, maybe even useless, but what Betsy did right now, she needed to do--and finish--herself. Triumph bred confidence, and as screwed up as she was, Betsy could use all the confidence in the world. Made tackling other issues like what her demonic body entailed, what happened to Jean’s telekinesis, and what else Belasco did to her less imposing.

Slightly less imposing. Very mildly, slightly less imposing.

Well, every bit of confidence helped, and Emma was all about confidence. Act like you know what you’re doing, and ninety-nine percent of the time, everything will fall into place. As for the other one percent? That’s when the mutant powers came into play.

*Emma,* said Betsy, straining, *Come closer. I want to try something.*

One Elisabeth Braddock didn’t get the memo about acting and peace of mind. Mental note: rake Psylocke over coals tomorrow if there is another tomorrow. Emma saved the rest of her cynicism because Betsy seemed too engrossed in whatever she did to be properly infuriated.

Never say Emma wasn’t the observer: she hated wasting her best barbs on the non-listening types.

Incidentally, Betsy didn’t check for compliance--she assumed it. “Whatever she did” turned out to be her attempt at modifying Emma’s exercise: instead of transferring abilities, why not imprint them? A sort of share-and-share-alike mentality never did harm. In Betsy’s estimation, Emma might not want to give back her fighting skills in a timely fashion, and this copying was a superior option to simply going without.

After yesterday’s session in the Danger Room, martial arts fascinated Emma to no ends. The blonde was giddy like a girl in a toy store... or like the White Queen with phenomenal cosmic powers in an itty-bitty living space.

Ok, mind on matter and no more Disney thoughts.

For her part, Emma caught the tail end of Betsy’s tangent and hesitated. One assumed things when the other party envisioned you doing your best impression of a flexing genie, and none of those “things” were good. Suppressing her reaction to vehemently protest, Emma took a leap of faith and edged toward Betsy’s astral form.

Gloved hands cradled Emma’s cheeks. Every digit provided an experience in their own, subtle twitches and caresses melting her tension away. Crackles of psychic energy broke the silence, but those small disturbances only registered as pleasant, ambient noise.

*Are you ready, Emma?*

Emma almost--just almost--purred in delight. *If you don’t stop now I might come.*

The hand exert more force and jolted the blonde awake. Brown eyes bored into her, and she felt something changing in the root of her self. Panic set in, and flashes from traumatic times--like when Mastermind literally shutdown her consciousness--spurred her into action.

But Betsy’s voice cut through the haze. *EMMA!*

The blonde paused and tried to re-center herself.

*Trust me,* Betsy said soothingly, *I won’t hurt you.*

*Do you know what you’re doing?* Emma pressed.

*Yes.* Crisp. Clear. Confident.

Sensing no uncertainty, Emma squashed the last of her reservations and opened herself to Betsy. Ripples of change traveled through her mind as she made room for her companion. Went surprisingly easy, and before long, Betsy had a solid connection to all things Emma. With Emma’s help, Betsy calmed the mental chaos and checked herself once more: the manifestation of her fighting skills held.

Little by little, she etched a copy into Emma’s psyche.

She painted with broad strokes. She chiseled with precision. She sculpted like a master. She recreated a part of herself while avoiding damaging Emma. And Emma silently marveled at the work. Lessons she never had bled into her. Observations she never would’ve made leapt at her. Her understanding of leverage, position, and concentration grew, her mind suddenly applying them in ways she hadn’t imagined.

Betsy moved like she fought, and Emma couldn’t help but give a wiry smile. So fleeting her touch, so delicate her actions, so subtle her motions, she resembled a ghost. As Betsy’s work took shape, the blonde felt her knowledge growing, her experiences expanding, her mind changing until finally, pushed to exhaustion, Betsy put the last touch on her masterpiece and left.

Her astral form collapsed back into her body, and Emma followed suit, recovering just in time to stop Betsy from smashing her face against the Danger Room floor.

No heavy breathing from Betsy. No sweating either. Just a bunch of moaning and groaning.

Emma couldn’t help but say, “I was that good, darling?”

“Have you no sympathy for the dead?” Betsy grumbled while clutching her aching head.

Gathering the woman in her arms, Emma began the slow and steady journey to the other’s room. Emma even eased the pain by dulling receptors in Betsy’s mind. “To bed you go, Elisabeth,” she encouraged. “Try to get some rest.”

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 13

Title: I Got What You Need

Chapter 12: I Got What You Need

Dane Whitman, or the being formerly known as Dane Whitman, sat before his laptop. Already his unknown benefactor had been very helpful, but tonight, he needed more. Time ran in short supply. His enemies would find out soon about his new state of being; that is, if they hadn’t found out already. He closed his eyes to breathe in the underlying chaos.

So close to the nexus... the power sung in his bones. Lord Belasco counted on him.

The chat box finally popped up, requesting a voice conference. He accepted and put on his headset to converse with this knowledgeable mortal, _AttrioR_.

The customary mechanical voice greeted Dane. “Do you require my services?”

“You told me the portal was in Manhattan, but I need to know more.”

“Patience,” the person urged, “Timing is of the essence. Other pieces are just now coming together.”

“I don’t care about your other pieces! Where is the portal?”

“Temper, temper, Mr. Whitman. One could easily misconstrue that you are not grateful for all I have done thus far. Like most, I do not appreciate ungratefulness.”

Foolish mortal. For now, Dane stayed his hand, but when Lord Belasco returned to earth, he would hunt down this arrogant peddler of information like a dog and tear him limb from limb.

“Forgive me,” Dane lied, “My hastiness gets the better of me again.”

“Make sure it does not when the time comes.”

“So where is the portal?”

“You will know when I tell you.”

“But Lord Bel-”

“Lord Belasco will get what he wants. Remain in Manhattan--that is all you need to do. I assume you still have the pendant?”

“Do you take me for an incompetent fool?”

“Yes.”

_AttrioR_ logged off.

*****************

“Sugah, which dress is better?”

Remy looked up to behold a naked Rogue holding a red silk number on her left and a black one with a plunging neckline on her right. After a moment’s consideration, Remy’s trademark grin made another fabled appearance.

“Why chere, da one in da middle look da best.”

“Remy!” she squealed, turning beet red. “Be serious! Kurt wants us to look good at dinner tonight!”

Remy scratched his head, mildly confused. “Dinner? Where we goin’?”

“Kurt wants us ta treat Betsy ta Harry’s. Sheesh, where were you this morning? The blue elf practically told everyone in the mansion.”

Oh, he knew perfectly where he was this morning: amongst the trees sneaking a smoke. Couldn’t say that out loud since Rogue hated his nasty habit, but honest, he tried to quit. And Rogue was just about putting two and two together when the phone in their room rang.

Before the first ring even stopped, Remy had already answered, “’lo, Remy here.”

The brunette stomped her feet impotently and went back into the bathroom to get dressed. Then, if all was well, she’d give the self-proclaimed “t’ief” a piece of her mind.

“Thank God I found you,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “There’s trouble back home.”

Remy’s eyes grew wide. “Bel? Slow down, chere, you scarin’ po’ Remy half to death.”

“You should be scared,” replied Bella Donna Boudreaux, Gambit’s ex-wife and his viceroy to the New Orleans Unified Guild, “Don’t know who, but a lunatic wants you. Came into a Guild meeting and demanded you show your face. Said every midnight you’re not here, he’s going to kill someone in the Guild. Been two days, Remy, and two people are dead.”

“De entire Guild can’t find him?”

“Wouldn’t be calling you if we could.”

Remy chewed on his lower lip. He raced through the numerous ways to get back to New Orleans before settling on the simplest method. “Bel, go find Quiet Bill. Tell him I be waiting for him at the landing up north. He’d know what I mean.”

Bella Donna let out a breath of frustration, and the crash on the other end of line probably meant another neat trinket on her desk had met an early demise. “Hurry, Remy. The Guild’s starting to get nervous, and you know how they can be.”

“Relax, chere. I be there, I promise. Now, de quicker you find Quiet Bill, de quicker I can be there.”

“What if we can’t find him?”

“If he’d not here in two hours, I’ll find m’own way to Nawlins.”

They said their goodbyes, and Remy sprung into action before the line went dead. By the time Rogue was fully dressed, he’d slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and was searching for his collapsible staff.

Wordlessly, she opened the drawer which held his shirts, picked up his weapon (which hid between a t-shirt and a vest) , and flipped it to him. He caught it and shoved it into his trench coat in one smooth motion. Eyes softening with concern, Rogue asked, “You need help, Remy?”

“I’ll call if I need you, Roguey. Dis be Guild business ‘n all.”

“Just cuz yo’ crazy guild ask you then you can’t bring no help?”

“Lots ‘o folks down there don’t ‘preciate outsiders,” Remy patiently explained. “If it comes down to help from outsiders or death, most of da time, they choose death. I ain’t like dem, but I ain’t gonna let dem kill demselves with foolish pride neither. You show up there wit me, de Guild probably wouldn’t want my help. If I can’t do nothing ‘bout dis crazy man, then I call you. You have my word.”

Like so many times before, they embraced, each silently wishing the other safety. Life, as they’d found out, was never assured for an X-Man.

Rogue kissed her gloved fingers and pressed them against Remy’s lips. “Don’t do nothing stupid, ya hear?”

“Love you, Roguey,” he smiled as he strode for the door.

“Remy?” she said, making him turn around. “Don’t smoke durin’ your trip.”

His boisterous mirth belied the grim task he went to face. Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, he fished the pack of Camels out of his pocket, crumpled them up, and side armed them into the trashcan beside the bed.

“See ya, chere.”

*****************

Sage watched Gambit’s motorcycle peel out of the mansion driveway. One suspect eliminated: two remaining, and coincidentally enough, two days to continue her investigation.

“How the hell did you get over there?!”

Bobby Drake’s sudden exclamation pulled her attention from the window and back toward the television. When he found her in the rec room sitting by herself and not using the big screen, he nearly jumped for joy, scrambling to claim some valuable “X-Box action.” Offhandedly, he asked if Sage wanted to play, and she surprised him by accepting. The game: Halo. The score: 31 to 2, advantage Sage. Despite playing on autopilot and her mind being miles away on the net, Tessa thoroughly humiliated the resident “videogame god” on his own turf in a level of his choosing.

To think, ten minutes ago, he shook his head and said, “Fine, your funeral.”

Unfortunately for him, her exhaustive firearms expertise combined with her computer-like mind ensured a smashing victory; however, she had to admit he had a good amount of skill. Despite gaming being one those pointless ventures, she respected such a devotion to honing one’s craft, especially when it pertained to the digital arena.

Another explosion engulfed Bobby’s side of the screen. Required him 5.3 seconds to process his defeat, and when he did, the controller went hurling out of his hands, eventually skittering on the carpet and thumping into the cherry wood entertainment center.

“I give up,” he said, head bowed.

Recently, Bobby’s mood fluctuated, a clear derivation from his lackadaisical, often scatter-brained self. According to Tessa’s current and very flimsy observations, he was either on the verge of extreme anger or pitiful tears... maybe even laughter. And if there was one thing that bothered Tessa, it was a question mark, of which Bobby Drake, Iceman, founding X-Man, was now one. Question marks were unpredictable, leading to randomness, leading to the unfurling of carefully constructed plans.

Question marks had to be rectified, and if at all possible, changed to advantages for the greater good.

“You are cold, Robert.”

The man lifted himself long enough to half-sneer, half-glare at Tessa. “Where do you think a name like Iceman came from?”

“Obviously from an unoriginal source,” she quipped, the biting reply momentarily befuddling Bobby. “I find it curious that the air around you is twenty degrees cooler than the room’s temperature. You have not activated your transformation.”

Hands rubbing his forehead as he flopped against the couch, interjections of disbelief spilled out of his mouth like clockwork. Tessa left the Oh Gods, Shits, I can’t believe this, and why nows alone, instead fixing her unwavering, analytical gaze on Bobby. They all succumb to her look, whether through fear, curiosity, or plain stupidity.

Bobby had enough when he’d felt certain Tessa’s eyes were stripping away every molecule in his body and observing them one by one.

Angrily, he pulled his Def Leppard sweater up to revel quite a sight. Most of his chest resembled his “iced up” state, but his sides and stomach were still flesh. Ice seemed to be invading his torso, taking over sliver by sliver. The areas where flesh met ice resembled a corpse’s complexion, bluish blood vessels ominously bulging through while the skin appeared dead. Tessa’s sunglasses magnified the border regions and found skin freezing, preparing to follow the surrounding cells into ice.

She knew the diagnosis. She found the root of his mood swings. She could help him. She had a use for him

“These are signs of a secondary mutation,” she noted, shifting her glasses slightly.

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Bobby sarcastically remarked while rolling his sweater down. Annoyance filtered into his speech. “Before you ask, no, I can’t change it back. Trust me, if I could, I would.”

Now this attitude came more in line with Sage’s model of Robert Drake. He always used humor or sarcasm to dull the edge of adversity, and this apparently permanent transformation qualified as adversity of the sharpest kind. In fact, he was quoted as saying he felt “luckier than a Metallica roadie for being able to march my rear end through a Friends of Humanity rally without being hung!” Losing his camouflage, especially so late in life, wrecked not only his connection with normal people, but also his self-image, his comfort, and his illusion of actually being normal.

And she noticed his silence about it too. Excellent.

“We should discuss this in private,” said Tessa as she stood up. “My room is just upstairs.” She didn’t wait for him to follow, and in fact, would’ve been disappointed had he jumped to his feet. It wouldn’t have been consistent with her projections of the situation.

As she sauntered past him, she swayed her hips enough to catch his attention but not enough to be scandalous. Her black leather pants hugged her curves and the lights reflecting off the shiny material produced an all-around arousing image. Left, right, left, right she repeated her sway, making it appear as if her exaggerated movements were the norm.

She stopped at the door, put a hand on the frame, and turned her head just so her left eye peeked out from the corner of her glasses.

“Coming?”

Only then did Bobby scramble off the couch.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 14

Title: The Prologue

Chapter 13: The Prologue

Lorna took a hit.

*****************

Kurt Wagner, better known as Nightcrawler, was a man of faith. All too often, his brush with the unusual, extraordinary, and miraculous made him question his devotion, but he remained steadfast in his belief of a Divine Plan. Even cosmic entities like Galactus, the Beyonder, and--dare he say it?--the Phoenix needed an origin. Additionally, he liked to think they needed a purpose too.

So when Betsy came back from the dead, he didn’t question. He embraced the miraculous fortune and went about his business of welcoming a friend’s return home. With Kitty and Hank also in the mansion, why, this was a call for celebration!

Well, a toned down celebration at least. Rumors throughout the Xavier Institute traveled fast and the newest details painted a trio of very touchy, and in the case of Hank and Betsy, very confused people. Summarizing Jean, none of them needed a stimulus overload, so the plan about a mansion-wide surprise party gave way to a more practical, no pressure invitation to an old favorite: Harry’s Hideaway. The moody could brood and boisterous could chortle, but Kurt banked on good ol’ Harry’s (with a little help from his food and brews) bringing out the best in everyone.

He’d spread the news to all the appropriate sources, and now, he approached his final invite: Frau Braddock herself. Really, he saved her for last not because of malice but because she’d sequestered herself in the Danger Room the entire morning with (and this name sent a tremor up his spine) Emma Frost. The vile woman was capable of anything, and he witnessed many of the most vicious mind games she’d played. Ok, Kurt was a forgiving man, though he was far from naïve. People could change, but the White Queen, who steadfastly maintained her less than personable demeanor and questionable morals, didn’t show signs of change. To Kurt, that stubbornness was grounds enough to severe ties with her.

The Professor thought otherwise.

This was the same woman who led the Hellfire club. This was the same woman who ruined the lives of young mutants. This was the same woman who murdered her own sister. This was the same woman who was most likely responsible for Sean Cassidy’s current dangerous behavior. What could the Professor possibly see to allow her into the X-Men?

Kurt sighed. Old prejudices were hard to ignore. He’d be more apt to turn the other cheek to Emma if he was certain she wouldn’t ignore his cheek altogether and plunge a knife into his heart... then twist it before shoving it deeper into his newfound chest cavity... then shove it again so the handle of the knife got covered in gore.

However, such was an issue for another time.

He had a party to plan.

“Oh Frau Braddock,” he called out in a sing songy voice while he sauntered closer to Betsy’s room, “Could you spare me some of your precious- Eh?”

No, Nightcrawler didn’t want any “Eh”s, Canadians, or Wolverines, bub. Being the private type, Betsy kept her door closed (if not locked) at all times: today she’d left it ajar. Maybe she was still moving furniture back from storage, but his hyper-keen hearing revealed a single person’s quiet, rhythmic breaths. Wanting to check on his friend, Kurt nudged the door open and poked his head in.

There Betsy peacefully lay on her large bed, blankets covering everything but an arm and her head. Her room was in slight disarray but looked to be approaching immaculate. Katanas hung the wall, vases and sculptures sat in display cases or cardboard boxes, Japanese lamps remained unlit, and an opened dresser overflowed with clothes. Very normal, nothing out of place, except for Emma Frost.

Seated on an executive leather chair at Betsy’s bedside, the blonde had her feet propped up and a thick wad of papers, topped off by an uncapped fountain pen, across her lap. One arm sat on the chair’s armrest but the other arm extended to Betsy. To Kurt’s surprise, the women’s hands touched, and not just touched, more like wove together in a tapestry of fingers. The scene would’ve been endearing if he didn’t notice Betsy’s lack of breath.

Surprise turned to outrage as he automatically assumed the worst. “Get away from her!”

The yell jostled Emma awake. Student essays and one expensive Mont Blanc pen crash landed even before her eyes fluttered open. Years of hard living and sudden Sentinel attacks forced her into action, and she tried to defend herself... which would’ve been the smart idea if she wasn’t lying so awkwardly. Pushed by her scrambling, the chair wheeled out from under her, leaving no support for her torso. Precariously balanced, Emma’s rear end bottomed out and pulled the rest of her body along with it for the ride. She averted the embarrassing fall when Betsy’s cat-like reflexes took control.

Using the bed as spring, Emma threw her hips up, planted her hands on the ground, and back flipped. She’d overshot the chair, but her battle instincts prompted her to swing her legs out, effectively rocketing the seat at Kurt. Reflexes none too shabby himself, Nightcrawler hurdled the projectile and charged forward while Emma landed onto Betsy’s nightstand in a sitting position.

Kurt left no time for the blonde to recover. He’d seen Emma’s devastating telepathic powers at work and didn’t want to give her any opportunity to get into his mind. He led with his fist to score a quick hit and end the encounter; Emma would have none of it and ducked the attack. Using her shoulder, she upended him and let his own force guide him into the wall. She quickly jumped away to put distance between them.

From beneath covers, a groggy Betsy popped her head out and shouted, “Kurt! Emma! Stop!”

While Emma stayed in her fighting stance, Kurt--stunned and slack-jawed--tumbled to the floor and stared at Betsy. “You’re alive,” he gasped. “I thought Emma...”

He trailed off, but a cursory scan of his mind told Betsy all she needed to know. “She’s been nothing but helpful, Kurt. It’s,” she stopped to search for the right word before settling on, “complicated. I’m not hurt.”

She glanced at Emma. Tense fingers, infinitesimally squinted eyes, and impassive face signaled the blonde’s readiness to protect herself, and by psychic attack if need be. *I said stop, Emma,* Betsy repeated over their rapport. She returned her gaze to Kurt but kept the mental conversation going. *He was too gung ho, but you’re not doing yourself favors by looking like you’re going to turn his brains to jelly.*

*Next time someone assaults you, let’s see how calm you’re going to be.*

*Bloody hell, I said stop already!*

*Stop what? Protecting myself from random X-Men attacks? This proves how little they think of me and I’m returning the favor.*

Arguing with Emma was like jabbing yourself in the eye with an ice pick: painful, pointless, and stupid. Betsy hoped for more luck by talking to the mostly jovial, devil-may-care Nightcrawler.

“Kurt, could you apologize to Emma?”

He’d messed up, plain and simple. He assumed too much and let his personal prejudices cloud his judgment. True, Emma earned his distrust, but Kurt Wagner was never one to defend clearly wrong actions, least of all when he perpetrated those actions. Hypocrisy never set well with him.

He picked himself up and swallowed his pride (What remained of it anyway.). “My apologies to both of you,” he uttered, voice shaded by embarrassment, “Especially to Emma. My reaction was unacceptable.”

*What a pathetic understatement.*

*Emma!*

*Oh please, I didn’t project my thoughts.*

Exchange unheard, Kurt continued, “How about I buy a round for you ladies tonight at Harry’s? Let me regain some of my dignity, no?”

Betsy happily nodded at the proposition. “We’ll be glad to come. What time?”

*Suddenly you’re making decisions for me?*

*Pipe down. You want the others to trust you? Go out with them more often. It’s called bonding. Try it, you’ll be surprised.*

A quick, nearly imperceptible flash of hurt blitzed Emma, but she covered it up well. Betsy only caught the tail end--all she saw was the blonde’s old student, Everett, bloodied.

Encouraged by the enthusiasm, Kurt puffed away and reappeared at the door. “Sevenish,” he drawled, leaning against the frame. Then with a touch of impishness, he added, “Wear something... appropriate.”

“Kurt, it’s Harry’s. A barrel would be appropriate.”

The man had the audacity to wink. “My point exactly, Frau Braddock. Auf wiedersehen.”

And poof he went, the unpleasant smell of brimstone the only sign of his departure. Finally, Emma relaxed herself. Shaking her head in exasperation, she stooped down to retrieve her spilled papers. Sensing the discontent, Betsy crawled out of bed to lend a hand and smooth over Emma’s mood.

*If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.*

*No, no,* Emma sighed, *You were right.*

Betsy failed to sniff out traces of the blonde’s bitterness, instead finding uncharacteristic defeat. Not like her to deflate from queen bitch to wounded poodle in seconds. Few topics cut through her armor so quickly, and Betsy wasn’t sure any of them were up for discussion.

*Classic X-Men procedure never to leave others alone,* said Emma, sniffing out Betsy’s purpose right away, *You know, I have my bouts with lucidity as well. Can’t I be self-critical without having it become an earth shattering revelation? Any shrewd entrepreneur acknowledges flaws and fixes them. We exude arrogance, but our minds work on another level. You’re getting a behind the scenes look, so just back away and enjoy the thought process.*

Amazing how Emma turned an entire playing field on its head and to her advantage. Too bad Betsy wasn’t backing off. *Don’t close up on me, Emma. This is about more than Kurt assuming the worst. You’re still not over Genosha, Generation X, or the Hellions. What I said about trust, that made you think, didn’t it? Made you think that maybe if you’d been more trustworthy you could’ve made a difference in their fates. Made you think that you were never good with trust, placing it in people who only betrayed you like your sister.*

*Am I like a broken toy to you?* Emma snarled. *Do you feel the urge to fix me? Do us both a favor and shove it!*

By now, the two of them had gathered all the papers. Anyone walking in (or walking by, seeing how the door was wide open) would’ve caught them crouched on the ground engaged in an intense staring match. Emma’s mental shouts slid off of Betsy, hostility and annoyance going unrecognized.

Betsy narrowed her eyes. *Did I imagine that sudden stab of regret and Monet holding Everett’s bloody corpse?*

A loud thunder crack of a slap rang out. The slapper: Emma. The slapped: Betsy. *I told you to keep to your own mind.*

How hard was the slap? Betsy’s teeth numbed. *Then ignore what’s obviously eating away at you? Wait until you’re so thoroughly consumed by your demons that you won’t even accept help, much less acknowledge your helplessness? Sure, I’ll stop bothering you, just because I want to watch you spiral into a manic depression while we have this incredibly strong mind link on. Then maybe I’ll find the will to throw myself off a building and see if this brand, spanking new demon body dies like the rest.*

*Laying on the sarcasm much?*

*We’re stuck together, and I’d much rather we acknowledge that than dance around it whenever we’re uncomfortable. I’m not asking you to pour your life into my hands, but I am asking you to have a grain of faith in me. If today and yesterday were any evidence, we’ll be needing each other.*

*I trust you-*

*Then do it, don’t say it.*

That tore the last of Emma’s restraint. Holy crap, wasn’t this old material? *Are you stuck on repeat?* demanded Emma as she bit her lower lip, *We’ve had this conversation before. Look, I accept my misgivings about trust and I agree we have to pull together if only to keep ourselves sane. We need time. Time to find out what’s going on, time to change, time to adapt. Where are you not getting that change takes time? What else do you want from me? I’m making my goddamn best effort!*

*Then trust me!*

*I am! I trust you with my memories, my powers, and my mind! Why else would I let you romp around in my head? Why else would I let you recall my past, things I haven’t told another soul? Anyone else, I’d have them mind wiped and shipped off to be at the Hellfire Club’s mercy.*

*Why won’t you-*

Emma held her hand to stop Betsy. *There’s some things I’m not ready to face, and let’s leave it at that.* Her attitude held no room for argument, but there was something else under her tone, something she didn’t want to let out. *I’m going to go to my room and finish grading these papers before our... engagement with Mr. Wagner.*

*Engagement? Emma, this is a drink at a bar. You know, simple, low key affair with few people?*

*Haven’t you noticed that nothing is ever simple around here?*

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 15

Title: So We Have a Problem

Chapter 14: So We Have a Problem

Isa Hayes lived his life on what he dubbed “scientific time.” Whenever he made mention of the term, others cocked their heads in confusion. Pity, those impatient masses who always wanted everything “Now! Now! Now!” couldn’t possibly understand the scope of a scientist’s vision, much less his sense of time. A researcher’s work stretched on for years, even lifetimes, and such increments of time--seconds, minutes, days--were simply too small to acknowledge. Keeping close tabs on the clock was like pawing for insignificant figures, like searching for exact numbers when rounded ones would do.

Sad.

Thus, for Doctor Hayes, “soon enough” meant weeks. A month. Two months, tops, but nothing less than a week. He didn’t expect “soon enough” to be one day after he’d vacated Frost Enterprises for the final time. By God, he’d just finished his tv dinner (and the newest episode of Battlestar Gallatica) when the phone rang. The caller? His mysterious benefactor.

“Come alone to this address,” the person demanded, all sounding much like those conspiracy movie masterminds. “You have thirty minutes and the clock is ticking. Don’t grow a brain, John.”

Well, he didn’t exactly say those words and he sounded much more sinister, but Isa wasn’t big on the details. It was enough that this sequence of events reminded him of an action-thriller he’d seen on the television. Speed or Commando or Scream or Ben-Hur or something.

The allure of his overactive imagination and the promise of his research returned led Isa to putter around Chicago in his Crown Victoria, aimlessly searching for the aforementioned address which he’d scribbled on the back of his hand. Between steering, dim lighting, and nervousness, finding one 1275 Bellcrest Road proved a challenge.

Wait, or was that 7215 Bellcrest Road? 1215 Bellerest Road? 7275 Beuerest Road?

Damn ballpoint pen.

After an hour of wandering, those ubiquitous AM/PM and 7/11 stores looked more and more attractive. His stomach rumbled; his throat ran dry; his windshield needed cleaning. He was late already, so being later wouldn’t hurt. One quick stop, just one quick visit to the restroom, a hurried bite to eat, a rapid grab of nachos for the road, a fast fill-up, and wow, even enough time to squeegee the windshield.

In a blazing twenty minutes, Doctor Isa Hayes, with tummy bloated and radio rocking, was back on the road. He was stopped at a signal light and in the middle of Hotel California when a beautiful (read: busty) woman tapped on his window. Of course, when lost in the middle of a barren, downtown Chicago intersection, the intelligent thing to do would be to roll down the window and see what the stranger wanted.

Naturally, Isa did the intelligent thing.

Ignoring his disturbing smile and obvious ogling, the woman leaned down (cue cleavage shot) and asked in a sultry voice, “You Doctor Hayes?”

“Uh huh, yes, that would be me, Doctor Isa Hayes, yup.”

Her fist careened into his jaw, and since he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, the good doctor tumbled face first into the passenger seat, his feet sticking up in the air and the rest of him very unconscious. Shaking her head in dismay, the woman slipped into the car, rolled up the window, and drove when the light turned green.

If anyone bothered to look, they would’ve seen the woman’s body ripple away, in its stead blue skin and shocking red hair. Mystique drew her tranquilizer gun from her holster and fired a dart into Hayes, just to make sure he was out. With not a small amount of distain, the radio got turned off.

She flipped out her cell phone and dialed a memorized number. When she heard the line pick up, she said, “I’ve got him.”

“Oh my, oh my, what took you so long?”

“He probably got lost. I found him at a stoplight a block away from the meeting place.”

“Astounding, Mystique. You are truly worth every penny of your services.”

“Easily impressed, aren’t you?”

“My fellow sister in blue, I don’t ask for much, only the world on a platter. But before I get too off-base, why don’t you drive the good doctor back here and I can continue with my plan?”

*****************

Kuan-Yin Xorn’s attempt at meditation failed again. Out of frustration, he pounded his fists against the carpet of his room.

“Concentrate,” he chided himself. Ever since coming to the X-Men, his spirit frayed, almost as if his existence was coming undone. He turned a blind eye to his uncertainty, convincing himself it all had to do with his homesickness. What began as a nagging, empty feeling spiraled out of control, progressing to where he’d lose track of time or find himself forgetting what he did during the day.

No one else commented on his plight, so he suspected nothing too out-of-the-ordinary occurred whenever had those peculiar blackouts. Like today, for instance--from early morning till late afternoon, he had no idea where he went. A trip to the infirmary half an hour ago confirmed his good health. Nothing should’ve been wrong with him, but yet, something was.

He had difficulty focusing. His body occasionally tingled as if submerged in a rushing river. He felt... off, but why he had no clue. He didn’t feel comfortable asking the others for help--didn’t know them long enough, didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to seem like a bother.

Kuan-Yin Xorn was a healer for Christ’s sake! The ultimate insult wasn’t his inability to find the problem, but rather that it was his body that was afflicted. What a cruel predicament...

Which became even crueler when his entire being seized up, convulsed, and eventually curled into a fetal position. Screaming wasn’t an option: the massive onslaught of pain made every sound die in his throat. His hand pressed against the sides of his helmet as if the simple act could drive away the hurt. His muscles tightened to such a point that he’d thought they’d all snap like overstretched rubber bands.

Slowly, the pain subsided; the changes in his body type didn’t. Some muscles remained tetanized. He stood a little taller. His widened shoulders, straightened back, and broadened chest conveyed an arrogance he didn’t formerly possess.

Like so, Kuan-Yin Xorn was no more, victim of a Jekyll-to-Hyde transformation. Unbeknown to the X-Men, their newest member had very quietly assumed the mantle of Magneto, Master of Magnetism.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 16

Title: The Life and Times of Harrys

Chapter 15: The Life and Times of Harry’s

“Have a drink,” she said.

“It’ll be a small affair,” she said.

“Try bonding,” she said.

Bullshit.

Emma and Betsy arrived together, the blonde playing the “You spoke for me so there’s no way I’m showing up on time or alone” card. Lucky her too because this supposed low key apology round courtesy of Nightcrawler turned out to be a surprise pow wow. Imagine Emma’s face if she’d showed up alone expecting a quick meet-n’-leave.

And who was suppose to be the precognitive here?

From across the room and surrounded by Storm, Rogue, Kurt, Jean, Logan, and Bishop, Betsy flashed Emma a grin, jiggled her pint of Guinness, and mentally laughed, *Just enjoy yourself!*

Easy for her to say. The rest of world wasn’t doing their poignant best to ignore her or give her their approximation of a death glare. Those who weren’t fawning over Betsy hung out in little groups of their own--Alex and Lorna, a plastered Kitty with Rachel and Shan, so forth. Emma... well, she got stuck sipping a dry martini at the four person kiddy table.

“Geez Frosty, what crawled up your ass and froze?”

Jubilation Lee. What a joy to be thrown in a lot with her.

“Jubilee! Ah don’t think Ms. Frost appreciates that kinda talk!”

Ahh, ever sweet Paige Guthrie. Pity her pleasurable companionship was always joined by one aforementioned, Asian girl.

Interesting thought though. “How did you girls get into Harry’s?”

“Thank the elf boy for that one,” Jubilee replied as she took a break from inhaling her soda. “Got in before the night crowd came. If ya haven’t noticed, it’s Harry’s Bar AND Grill,” she said, winking, “Us not quite twenty-one types get free sodas.”

“How... quaint.”

The fourth member of their “kiddy table” club? An out of place Henry McCoy sporting none of his exuberance or verbosity.

“Yo,” said Jubilee, poking at Beast with her straw, “Papa bear, you home? Starin’ at your drink ain’t gonna make it go away. Unless of course...”

She made a shifty attempt at snaring Hank’s beer which Emma stopped. The blonde’s free hand moved, flashing from her side and smacking Jubilee’s wrist.

“Ouch!” yelped the girl, rubbing the angry-looking welt, “Since when did you move like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?”

“Since this morning,” Emma bristled, the two once more falling into their old student-teacher dynamic.

“Haha, very funny Frosty. Have anything to do with Betts lockin’ you up in the Danger Room for hours?”

“Digging for rumors already?” Emma put on her Cheshire cat grin, the same one which infuriated Jubilee to no ends by managing to be insulting, manipulative, and suggestive all at once. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Jubilation.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “It’s Jubilee, and no Frosty, not everything I hear gets blabbered to everyone else. Can’t I just care about my ex-teach?”

“I’m touched,” Emma remarked, bringing an almost imperceptible glimmer of mischievous hope in Jubilee’s face, “but I’m not fooled.”

Stomp. There went that glimmer of hope.

Since Frost was her usual no-fun self, Jubilee returned to the dejected Hank. According to Wolvie who heard from Kurt who talked to Storm who ran into Jean, the big blue machine was none too pleased at himself or Betts. Death threats, kidnapping, built up angst--pretty heavy stuff, and all of it festering. With Betts living la vida loca, poor ol’ Hank didn’t have anywhere else to go, and really, no one to talk to.

Which reminded her. “Hayseed,” said Jubilee, elbowing her friend in the side, “Where’s your wingman?”

“At a business meetin’. He turned down Kurt this mornin’.”

Well, more power to him. The way those two split up, he probably didn’t want to be seeing Betts anyways, especially with Paige around. Too bad because Hank could’ve used Warren’s company, but Jubilee wasn’t about to let her favorite (yes, favorite, even more so than Kurt) fuzzy friend get all down on himself.

To coax a reaction, Jubilee struck an odd pose--one involving Paige and Emma’s white, leather jacket--and said in a bubbly voice, “Gimme a smile, Hank!”

He couldn’t mask the strain in his smile. Along with the nostalgia Harry’s brought back were the broken feelings over his departure from the X-Men. There weren’t any overt displays of unfriendliness, but man was there a wave of discomfort. Unlike Kitty who stayed in touch, Hank severed all ties, a gesture some considered excessive. She also parted on better terms, a point she hammered home whenever they got a chance to talk.

Six months... not a long time, but enough for the world to move on. The X-Men moved on, just like they always did. Faces--a few new, most old--looked different to him and looked differently at him. For all of Jean and Kurt’s cajoling, Hank couldn’t gather the wherewithal to break through the initial blanket of iciness. That led him into the company of Paige, Jubilee, and Emma.

The first two young ladies, shielded from much of the mansion’s drama by the age barrier, still held him in high esteem. Emma Frost? She never had anything bad to say about him as much as he never had anything bad to say about her. Their relationship was cordial, nonjudgmental, and that was just what he wanted.

He appreciated Jubilee’s effort to cheer him up, but the melodrama wouldn’t leave.

Seeing Hank’s uneasiness, Emma swooped between one bubbly teen and one depressed doctor. “Logan wants to have a word with you.”

The very mention of his name unleashed Jubilee’s store of hero worship. Not a small part of her still liked to show off her tight connection with Wolverine, something Paige had been privy to before and, if that sparkle in Jubilee’s eye meant anything, would be privy to again in just a moment.

“Oooooo, Wolvie,” she called out to the man across the room while snatching Paige’s arm and sliding out of her chair, “You rang?”

Logan squinted, glancing between a beaming Jubilee and a way too calm Emma. He glued his stare on Emma and tilted his head in Jubilee’s direction, almost as if saying, “I didn’t say nothing. What’s your game, Frost?”

In response, the blonde leaned to the side, revealing Hank in all his dejected glory. Her eyes darted between Beast and Jubilee in a “Game? What game? I’m trying to stop this girl from driving him insane” gesture.

He grunted, his posture relaxing slightly. “Get over here, kiddo,” he said in that gruff yet affectionate way of his. Two blinks later and Jubilee--Paige in tow--went from the kiddy table to Betsy’s table, somehow seamlessly inserting herself into three of the ongoing conversations there.

Emma sighed to herself. For a non-telepath, Logan could communicate quite well without speech. Probably had something to do with all the inhuman growling he’d done in his life. Rrrrrr, point, point, grrrrrrrrrr, punch, kick, roar, growl, grumble, point.

Hehe.

“Oh my stars and garters, was my foul mood so apparent?”

Not to mince words, Emma polished off the rest of her martini before saying, “Of course. They’re young, not stupid.”

“True,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Youth... I remember it like it was yesterday...”

“It was yesterday. I’m sure you were younger twenty four hours ago.”

“Your cynicism befuddles even my own, Ms. Frost. I bow at your Hemmingway-esque powers.”

“I’ve had practice, especially during these past two days.”

Hank chugged his beer before chuckling, “Ah yes, what a segue into asking me about my own issues pertaining to the party-hardy Ms. Braddock. Points for subtlety, Ms. Frost.”

Well, not exactly her intention, but since he brought it up...

“Elisabeth feels terrible,” said Emma, “And she doesn’t think you’d want her apologies because you’ve been rather picky about the company you keep. As Jean noted, she is just as afraid to talk to you as you are of her.”

“My, my, I forget how fast word spreads in the mansion.”

“That it does,” Emma admitted, “but you’d be amazed how much you can learn from scanning Jubilation’s surface thoughts.”

It was good to hear Beast’s laugh again. Loud and boisterous, it turned many frowns upside-down, and Emma had a soft spot for it. Why, she’d almost join him herself if her cell phone wasn’t ringing.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Frost, this is Sheila.” Sheila. New personal assistant at Frost Enterprises. Dealt almost exclusively with PR. “Are you in front of a television?”

Emma looked around and saw all the TVs turned to a baseball game and surrounded by fans. “Yes, I am.”

“Please turn it to CNN, ma’am. We have a problem.”

She walked to one of the sets and changed the channel. A few disgruntled Cubs fans yelled at her, but her patent-pending “Don’t make me destroy your soul” glare silenced them. One of the news network’s mainstays, Aaron Brown, yammered away while the words “Breaking News” flashed across the ticker.

“... as can be. On the phone, we’re joined by this man, one Dr. Isa Hayes, formerly of Frost Enterprises in Chicago. Welcome Dr. Hayes.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

“You claim that your previous employer, owner and CEO of the multi-billion dollar conglomerate, Emma Grace Frost, is a mutant.”

“That is correct, Aaron.”

“You have to understand that, in the current American climate, this is one loaded allegation, Dr. Hayes.”

“Yes I do, but it is the truth, so I have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you have any proof? Ms. Frost is perhaps the United States’ most respected businesswoman and held in very high esteem by many. The burden of proof, sir, is upon you.”

“Well Aaron, I’ve developed a mutant tracking device by combining a software genetic filter that works with every day GPS technology. My first subject was one of the X-Men. In a curious twist, I tried to identify all the individuals surrounding him and found one of them to be my former employer. I approached her with this information and she terminated my contract.”

“Fascinating st-”

Emma shut off the TV.

Everyone in the bar quietly stared at her, and if not for the Cubs game, people could actually hear themselves.

“Hello?” asked Sheila. “Ma’am, are you still there? Hello?”

“I’ll be at the Manhattan office soon.” She hung up and stomped out the door.

Betsy looked at the dumbfounded crowd, frowned in disgust, and took off after the blonde. In the parking lot, she shouted at her retreating target, “Emma! Hey Emma! Wait!”

The woman whipped around, angry as all hell. “Not a broken toy!” she shouted at Betsy, harkening back to their previous talk, “Keep to yourself on this one. Frost Enterprises is my child, and I’ll be damned if some no-name, disgruntled hack tarnishes its image.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful,” calmed Betsy as she caught up to Emma. “I know how much your company means to you, and if you need anything, call me.”

“Are you trying to get into my good graces?”

“No, I’m treating you like a friend, albeit a very touch-and-go, mercurial as a drunk Irishman friend, but a friend nonetheless.”

So Betsy made an effort to reach out. Fine. Emma could do that too despite all the nosy poking and prodding.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Thud. She pulled the gates down on their psychic rapport.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 17

Title: Ride em Cowgirl

Chapter 16: Ride ‘em Cowgirl

Tessa was abso-freakin’-lutely amazing. What was that about the quiet ones? They were bound to be spitfires in bed? Well, Tessa wasn’t a spitfire: she was better, like a Harrier jet. Up and down, left to right, she did it all. At least, she did all the stuff Bobby saw in his extensive stash of porn.

For some reason, despite his pleasure, he couldn’t help but feel a little used. As always, Tessa seemed lacking in the emotion department, but the hugest blow to his manliness was, well, right now. They’d just finished and Bobby lounged in the “I need a cigarette” zone when she sprung out of bed and slapped on her clothes.

No pillow talk. No after sex jitters. No overwhelming disgust. Just boom, boom, boom, clothes go on. She resembled a decathlete striding off to her next event.

“Ummm, do I get any feedback?”

Tessa shot a glance at him as she tied her shoes. “Like what, Robert?”

“I dunno. Nice ass? Sloppy moves? Awesome packaging? Fast shipping? A++?”

She actually looked contemplative for a moment. “Good package. Average technique. May do business again. 3 out of 5.”

3 out of 5? “Are you calling the Drake Express a crappy ride?”

“No. Considering my expertise on sexual intercourse, a score such as yours is admirable.”

Geez, way to stick your neck out there, Bobby. After sleeping with her, rake up memories of her spy days in the Hellfire Club and see what happens. Bad enough he came off looking like an insecure, clingy castaway, but now he also trended into forbidden waters.

Spinning to save the moment, Bobby blurted, “What’s the rush, Tessa?”

“Robert, the time is 8:37 PM. The night is still young.”

“What’s wrong with watching the night grow old and wrinkled in bed?”

Nothing turns a girl on like sweet talk about geriatrics, right Bobby?

For his sake, Tessa let him down slow. “Please, I still need to sleep in my room later. Go and watch Cinemax in the commons.”

Bobby’s sensible option would be to bow his head, put on his clothes, and spend the rest of the night beating himself over his mistakes. When it came to Bobby, he never trusted sensible. The man flew by the seat of his pants, most of the time straight into trouble, but on occasion...

“Was I a pity fuck?”

On occasion he flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

Anyone else would’ve mashed him into a bloody pulp, but Tessa wasn’t anyone else. Her steady demeanor and analytical mind made her virtually impregnable to emotional tantrums, and right now, for Bobby, that was a good thing.

“We needed this,” she evenly replied. “Your fear of your secondary mutation has made you unstable. You required someone to show you that the ones you hold dear will not think less of you. Me, I expelled my stress through sex. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“So I was a pity fuck...”

“What do you want, Robert? Would you like me to shout my undying devotion to you from the roof of the mansion? Would you like to be bound in an exclusive relationship with another X-Man? Would you like to dine on the Orne river of France and feed each other the cuisine de terroir?”

He had no idea what cuisine de terroir was, but it sounded good. “Well, yes, yes, and YES?”

“No, the correct response is none of the above. Exclusive relationships on the team are complicated, and more often than not, end miserably. Have you witnessed Scott and Jean’s marriage? How about Warren and Betsy’s fling? Remember when Rogue left Gambit to die in Antarctica? I will not be embroiled in that kind of drama. My devotion to you is the same as it always was: a friend and a teammate. For the time being, I find you a comfortable distraction, devoid of demands, expectations, and judgments. My reluctance along with your maturity level dictate that this will be the best arrangement for us.”

Bobby was just about to argue more when a green flash of light pulsed through Tessa’s window. As this was the X-Mansion, green flashes of light on the property only meant trouble, so Tessa threw on her trench coat and Bobby iced up. They raced down the stairs in time to see Scott throwing open the front door and shouting, “Who are you?!”

The man wore a dark ski mask and a coat similar to Tessa’s--similar enough, she noted, to be similarly armed to the teeth. A... contraption was behind him, something which looked like a huge, four-legged beetle. He had a sports bag draped over his shoulder and his other hand lay at his side.

“My name is Fantomex,” he said to the three X-Men, “and I need asylum.”

“From who?” asked Scott, cautious and skeptical.

“From the Weapon Plus program. I’m prepared to offer information and money.”

Scott was about to tell him to take his money elsewhere when the Professor called out from the background, “Let him in, Scott.”

Trusty, old Professor Charles Xavier, always the good mutant Samaritan.

Sage smiled.

*****************

Whoever killed Aubin did a masterful job. Cleaved the poor, tubby man clean in half--no ripped skin, no jagged bone, no asymmetry, not even on his massive gut. Done like a pro, no one heard anything amiss and no one saw anything out of the ordinary. Most importantly, no one saw a killer. Busy street out there, and pretty amazing no one saw a damned thing. All anyone knew was Aubin walked into the alley and never walked out.

People thought the devil did him in.

“Might not be far from de truth,” Remy mumbled to himself.

Again he looked through the desolate, dead-end alley. La Boulangerie bakery to one side, the Pawtuck Saloon on the other. Both extended about eight stories up, the floors dotted by apartments, offices, and businesses. Nothing to really go on, not even a footprint, but in a world of mutants, the lack of leads didn’t surprise anyone. Every Guild member had been instructed to not let each other out of sight, but somehow, Aubin came in here by himself.

Which meant someone he knew was here or someone he knew set him up.

Remy frowned. The days of Thief versus Assassin were past them, but blood feuds died hard. Could be a grudge from days back rearing its ugly head. Aubin was a fence and not exactly the most well-liked guy, but for someone in the Guild to outright kill him?

The scenario didn’t make sense. Why would a vengeful killer indiscriminately kill Assassin and Thief while calling out the absentee leader of the Guild? No, this person had beef with the Guild itself...

Or Remy himself.

A killer this good wouldn’t go to such lengths to lure Remy here, back to his home turf where he had an advantage with local knowledge and numbers. No, this chase smelled more and more like a game. Whoever this was wanted a set of specific conditions, but puzzling out the madman’s reasons proved elusive.

Why kill once a night when you could do it any time?

Why random Guild members?

Why even give the Guild a warning?

Why not kill just Bella Donna if he wanted to send a message?

And why a freakin’ sword? Make no mistake about it, Aubin got cut in two by a long sword--needed something lengthy enough to get past all his blubber. Nothing made sense--Remy was at his wit’s end and needed to leave.

Aubin stank.

Another twenty three hours before the killer struck again. No clues, no motive, no way to stop him. Rogue’s offer for help looked mighty tempting, but he couldn’t bring her into this, not when she could die.

Remy LeBeau wasn’t that kind of man.

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 18

Title: Danger Zone

Chapter 17: Danger Zone

In a half decayed, half ablaze Manhattan, Betsy smashed Sabertooth’s head in and smiled when he exploded.

Danger Room drones: gotta love ‘em.

Kurt’s party didn’t turn out as well as everyone had hoped. Rogue seemed uncomfortable without Remy. Emma understandably stormed out. Scott wasn’t there and Jean didn’t care, a little detail which got worse when Logan became a little too buddy-buddy with her during the dart match. People walked on eggshells around Hank, especially Betsy herself.

Thus, the party wasn’t as much a letdown as it was an unmitigated disaster. Unfortunately for everyone, things only got worse when they headed home.

Some unknown mutant showed up demanding sanctuary a few hours ago, and of course, the Professor obliged. A whirlwind of activity followed. Wolverine grilled this Fantomex person about the Weapon Plus claims while Scott roped Tessa and Bishop into researching the man’s past. Paige went off to call Warren, leaving Jubilee to bother Hank who was talking to Ororo. Jean had a few words with an increasingly odd Lorna, probably about those wedding plans they’d been cooking up.

To Betsy, the mansion felt like a time bomb. So, what better way to remove herself from the world’s troubles than beat the living daylights out of some poor simulations?

She jumped over Matsu’o’s sword and drove her heel through his chest. Another bang, another round of enemies. Gunfire blazed her from the side: Deadpool, and next to him, the Hulk. The two combined into an impressive close-range long-range tandem and worked to pin Betsy down and negate her speed. In reality, this fight would’ve probably been over--she would’ve struck down Deadpool with a telepathic attack and the Hulk? Running seemed like a fine idea if telepathy didn’t work. Luckily, these were drones nowhere near the power of the real things. Betsy ducked and watched the Hulk ram his meaty fist clear through the corner of a building.

Ok, revision: not nowhere near, but pretty damned close to the real things.

The Danger Room doors opened, admitting a cigar smoking Wolverine. He pulled on his mask and grunted, “You could use a hand, Betts.”

Her foot imbedded itself into the Hulk’s groin and caused the mammoth to double over. She rolled to avoid Deadpool’s throwing knives, picked up a sewer lid, and decapitated the drone after hurling it from a crouching position.

She grinned toothily at Logan. “Thanks, old man, but you’re a little late.”

Since Logan was closer to him now, the Hulk drone charged him. Logan stepped up to meet his attacker, claws unsheathed and fist screaming into the thing’s midsection. Adamantium and adamantium reinforced bone shredded steel and circuitry. The Hulk slumped then dropped when Logan removed his arm.

Shink went his claws as they retracted.

“Them’s fightin’ words where I come from.”

“Glad to know they still speak the Queen’s English in Canada.”

The cigar butt fell to the ground. “Run practice routine eighteen,” he called to the computer, “Setting: dojo.”

The apocalyptic New York downtown blurred into a serene but Spartan Japanese dojo containing sliding screens and a breathtaking mountaintop view. The soft sound of a waterfall mingled with chirping birds and rustling leaves. Cherry blossoms blew through the doors and filled the air like a spring time festival.

Wolverine dropped into a guarded stance and circled Betsy.

They’d fought with and against each other countless times before. No one in the mansion could hold their own against Logan except Betsy, and coincidentally, no one in the mansion enjoyed fighting as much as them either. The battle was their sanctuary, the flow of blocks and blows calming them into meditative states. Wasn’t surprising they spent many cold nights like this, locked in combat and trapped in their own minds. Both had enough angst to combat and enough aggression to release.

They forged their friendship through fighting, and they cherished it.

Betsy attacked first, a jump kick. Logan sidestepped and grabbed her ankle, but instead of seizing the advantage, his face seized a blast of pain when she contorted mid-flight and drove her other foot into his jaw.

He massaged the painful joint as she sprung away. “Nice move.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Logan.”

“A man can try.”

His turn to attack, and this time he didn’t hold back. The last hit was a gimme: he didn’t want to tax Betsy too much since she just, well, you know, came back from the dead and all. The girl showed no rust, so the gloves came off the fight got cracking for reals.

Then the thinking started.

Weapon Plus. More exploited mutants. Chance to see his past finally. That Fantomex guy wasn’t the cleanest of characters, but he seemed too desperate to be pulling lies out of his ass.

Sure enough, he wanted protection and revenge. Protection part Logan could understand, but the revenge part... people had scores of reasons for revenge, and not all of them were good, reasonable, or simple. One thing Logan hated was being played for a fool, and Fantomex sounded like he was jerking the X-Men around on the revenge garbage. Dude gave no reason for wanting to bring Weapon Plus down and wouldn’t say nothing more.

Either his reason would nullify the X-Men’s goodwill to help or he didn’t have one.

Logan disliked both conclusions.

While he simmered over his past, Betsy boiled about her present. This fight proved it: she was quicker, sturdier, stronger, and more agile now. She didn’t tire, but she did hurt--still deciding if that was a good thing or not. Formerly, she wasn’t as fast or durable as Logan, and attrition usually ended their fights, not martial prowess. This body gave her the little edge to draw her even with the man, and now, they could truly test their vast abilities against each other.

Comforted Betsy to know Emma walked out of Harry’s with her fighting skills as back-up.

And there was that woman again. Emma. Even miles away, Betsy couldn’t stop thinking about the blonde. After the mental battles, hurtful words, and all around incompatibility, one would expect Betsy to walk away. Nope, here she was, in the middle of throwing hits at Wolverine, obsessing over Emma again. This fixation wasn’t healthy. It just wasn’t right.

They’d been through a traumatic event together. They got to know each other real well. Joy to the world, now move on with life. Betsy couldn’t though. Everything about Emma sucked her in and wouldn’t let go--the inner strength, the protective streak, the loyalty, the attitude, the gorgeous lips, and that full, curvaceous body...

Oh hell, this wasn’t happening.

She stopped mid-block to examine her previous, enticing, erotic image. Since when did she think of Emma Frost’s ass in that way?

POW!

Betsy actually stayed on her feet for two seconds, then she wobbled for about two more before falling over like a Christmas tree the day after New Years. As she sprawled out on the ground and watched the cherry blossoms descend, Logan walked into view.

“Y’ok, Betts?”

“Ikana veal phuni.”

The splattering of incoherent words concerned him. “Wha?”

Betsy swallowed and waited for the pain in her head to subside. “I kinda feel funny,” she slowly repeated.

“Need a trip to the medlab?”

“No, I’m good.”

When she made no move to get up, he sat down and produced another cigar. Just as he was about to light it, Betsy mumbled, “Could you not smoke right now?”

“There a problem?”

“I want to get you some better cigars. These stink.”

“But I’ve always smoked these.”

“They stink.”

“Never heard you complain before.”

“Didn’t know stink from not stink. Emma knows some good ones.”

A twinkle of understanding crossed his face. “Had your mind on Frost, didn’t ya?”

“No.”

Logan left his gaze on her.

“Maybe.”

More looking, this time accompanied by a squint.

“Most likely.”

He did that thing with his upper lip, showing enough teeth to be menacing.

“Yes! I was thinking about Emma!”

“No shame in it,” he laughed, the intimidation gone. “Smelled her all over you when you came into Harry’s.”

“It’s not what you thi-”

“But you want it to be.”

Her brain hadn’t gone so far out there yet, but based on current projections, yes, that would’ve been the most probable destination. “How did you know?”

He tapped his nose with his unlit cigar. “Smelled something before I cold-clocked ya. Didn’t put it together till you mentioned Frosty.”

“What did you smell?”

“Arousal.”

Like getting punched by his metal fist all over again. “You say it so casually.”

“When you’ve been around as long as I have, nothin’ surprises you anymore. So what if you got the hots for Frost? Don’t make you no different in my eyes. Hell, I’ve caught myself starin’ at her too, so I can sympathize.”

“It’s not like that, Logan.”

“’Course it’s not, Betts. That’s why you’re down in the Danger Room smashin’ up drones and beatin’ me to a pulp.” He considered that roll of tobacco for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. “Face it, girl, you’ve got it bad.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Oh, I think she does. Stuff like that don’t escape Frost’s notice. With all the time you’ve been spending together, she’d have to pull a Bobby Drake not catch a hint.”

“She hasn’t showed any kind of-”

A mural of the past days came together and headed off her protests.

Gracefully, Emma touched Betsy’s cheek. She considered the woman beautiful, inside and out, and Emma hated spoiling beauty...

... See Emma search self for answers. See Emma find some answers. See Emma want to share those answers. See Emma puzzled over Betsy’s defensiveness. See Emma get flash of precognition. Finally, see Emma confront Betsy for what’s believed to be her own good...

... the women’s hands touched, and not just touched, more like wove together in a tapestry of fingers....

Emma almost--just almost--purred in delight. *If you don’t stop now I might come.*

*There’s some things I’m not ready to face, and let’s leave it at that.* Her attitude held no room for argument, but there was something else under her tone, something she didn’t want to let out...

*Just like I suspected,* Betsy said, stepping away and folding her arms. *I was wondering why I couldn’t get a good read on you. Your attitude is why this exercise of yours won’t work. You’re sealed up like Fort Knox...

... like Fort Knox... something she didn’t want to let out... some things I’m not ready to face... don’t stop now I might come... confront Betsy for what’s believed to be her own good... considered the woman beautiful, inside and out...

“Betts,” said Logan, prodding her, “You were a million miles away.”

Something she didn’t want to let out...

Was that why she kept her mental distance? Made sense. Emma didn’t let people in. She didn’t have a choice this time, and maybe, just maybe, she liked it. If she hated it, she would’ve made her opinion known and did something drastic. Yeah, they had their fair share of arguments, but Emma never completely shut the door on their interaction. She talked about her annoyance, even got royally ticked, but outright refuse to help or permanently cut their rapport? Nope.

Slim chance Emma felt an attraction. Even slimmer chance she obsessed like Betsy did. Only by the slimmest of margins did Betsy stop herself from reaching out to Emma and scouring for the answer. With her company in trouble, Emma didn’t need more issues.

“Yo, Betts, are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah Logan, just... thinking.”

He chuckled to himself. “Yup. Got it bad.”

Couldn’t take much more of him speculating and getting right her emotional attachments. Somehow, it felt wrong on many levels, like talking about sex with your much older friend of the opposite sex (which in this case was the case) or, worse yet, your father.

A topic change was in order. “What about you, Logan? I wasn’t the only one in the Danger Room trashing drones and knocking people’s heads off.”

“Me? I’m done thinkin’.”

“About this new guy in the mansion?”

“No, ‘bout my cigars. You said Frost knows some better ones?”

She groaned at him. “I think I’m up for kicking your ass again.”

He stood and offered a helping hand to her. “Don’t get distracted, Betts.”

One kippup later, Betsy sprung to her feet without his assistance. She got a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Want to up the ante?”

The challenge intrigued Logan. “What you have in mind?”

Demonic body. Demonic claws. Betsy remembered using them on Amanda, so...

Her fingers blackened and elongated slightly. Her fingernails bulked up and hooked. Before the surprise reached his brain, she had ten talons on her hands and a wicked smile on her face.

“Look what I got.”

Logan extended his own weapons and mirrored Betsy’s amusement. “Gonna be like taking down Sabertooth,” he grunted with a hint of anticipation.

“Only I’m less hairy and more attractive.”

“Don’t know about the less hairy part.”

False indignation colored her voice. “You’re gonna die, old man.”

“Now I’m not sure about the more attractive part neither.”

They both charged at each other, chopping, hacking, and slicing with abandon. To anyone else, they appeared to be mortal enemies; to them, they were just having fun. Betsy worked off her buried tension, going all out, non-stop, full-throttle-

An opening! Hoping to be the first to draw blood, she swiped at Logan’s exposed side. Of course she wouldn’t hurt him, just nick him a little bit to get the fight going in earnest. She forgot one detail though: Logan had his claws for decades, and the experience advantage in this kind of combat fell neatly into his lap.

What seemed like an opening was only a feint. Betsy noticed a millisecond late.

He stopped himself, even retracted his claws, but she moved too fast. Not only did he dodge her strike, he also raked across her stomach. His quick reaction prevented him from cutting her in half, but the all-too-familiar resistance of flesh against adamantium registered in his mind.

The cold metal entering her insides also registered in Betsy’s mind, and only through immense self-control did she block the sensation--and the subsequent flashback to Vargas--from assaulting Emma.

Emma. The first thing she thought of. She got skewered and she concerned herself with Emma who was miles away and probably couldn’t care less.

Yup. She had it bad.

“No flamin’ way. You’re not bleedin’.”

A bubbly sensation rumbled around Betsy’s wound. She touched the neatly cut flaps of her stomach to make sure, and there it was again, rumbling like she was starved. Odd how the pain stopped and foreboding set in. For the lack of a better description, Betsy felt like something was trying to fight its way out of her. Instinct made her hold back whatever spurred her on, but soon, it overwhelmed her.

An urge. Hunger. She looked up at her concerned companion. Meat. “Logan?”

“Ya look spooked, Betts.”

“Run.”

She barely got the order out before tendrils of inky darkness exploded from her wound. More joined in, this time erupting from her shadow. All of them darted at Logan who tried to fend them off, but for every extension he lopped away, four pushed forward from the base of the cut. Two got through his defenses and ripped a gaping hole across his midsection... exactly where Betsy herself sported wounds. They retracted backwards while others kept Logan occupied.

Bloody flesh met bloodless flesh. The tendrils wove Wolverine’s skin into her own, patching up the cut like expert surgeons. They even blended the new and old flesh together, returning the area to its previous, unwounded state. Only when they finished did Betsy gain control of her hitherto unknown appendages and force them back into whatever nether regions they spawned from.

Luckily Logan had his healing factor and razor sharp reflexes: except for the quickly closing gash on his stomach, he wasn’t hurt.

“What the hell was that, Betts?!”

Betsy blinked. “I need to call my brother.”

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 19

Title: The Diary

Chapter 18: The Diary

Picketers and other anti-mutant bigots pitched their tents outside the office building and parking structure--had to go around back. Luckily, the on-call chauffeur was intelligent and managed to avoid being seen. Already the news stations buzzed with sound bites of Isa Hayes’ interview and wild speculation about Emma’s business practices. Some wanted the company seized, others wanted a public genetic test to verify her “mutantness.” Messages piled into her voicemail, all concerned clients or investors looking to retract their dollars to avoid a loss.

Whole situation was her worst fucking nightmare come true. Ever since her days in the Hellfire Club, Emma entertained the idea of her being exposed as a mutant. She assumed her power, connections, and riches would dig her out of any mess, but the way things looked, the public wouldn’t be so easily put down. Fucking media sensationalism. Fucking mutant hysteria.

Relapsing into a criminal mastermind never sounded so good.

At least she got away from the mansion. Seemed like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, like an oppressiveness chased away. Now that she examined the feeling, she was quite certain her disposition, though currently unpretty, was much more volatile back in Westchester.

But those thoughts were for another time.

Sheila, manila folder in hand, greeted her outside her office. “Ma’am, I have my research here.”

“Go call board meeting. I want everyone here by 9 AM, no excuses.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She scurried back to her office across the way and closed the door. One look up and down the hall told Emma no one else was here. What a dedicated girl. Guess who was getting a fat Christmas bonus this year?

Emma shrugged off her mink coat and entered her immaculate sanctum. The very first detail was the room’s sheer size. Big enough to be a loft, her office laid claim to one of the most spectacular skyline views of Manhattan due to the wall-length window behind her desk. Everything was big from the big executive desk to the big window to the big bookshelf to the big couch to the full-sized (though cleverly hidden behind a panel) bar. To the side, an aquarium contained legions of white fish.

All tastefully done. All received Emma’s approval.

She threw her coat on the couch and opened the envelop. Strange, all the pages were blank. Emma turned around in time to see an armed Sheila fire a dart into her.

*BETSY!*

*****************

My darling Raven,

You’ve been good and followed my last wishes to the letter. Well, my love, this diary is ending, and I’m afraid I must truly leave you soon. There are no more destinies, no more futures I can clearly see. This is my magnum opus, one which ties together the most important aspects of our beings and, hopefully, will allow them to flourish.

This last diary is for love and family.

You know the reason behind our conflict with the X-Men, why I told you to work with the Beast’s sinister double, why I went through the trouble of these deceptive missives: Rogue. She may not be ours in body, but her heart and soul are another matter. When we took her in, we made a commitment to each other to give her the best, whatever the cost to ourselves--it’s what good parents do. I knew you would be a great mother. I knew you would sacrifice everything for her.

I know you love her. I know the pain you’ve gone through to push her away so she could learn to control her powers, something we couldn’t have taught her. I know about your sleepless nights, the times when you paced around our room playing over the hateful words she said to you after another of your less-than-friendly encounters. I know you ache to hug her again, to exchange something else besides spiteful words and lies.

Darling, you’ve done well despite the struggles and Rogue is a finally grown woman. It’s time for her to fly, to let her go from our grasp and be free.

Unfortunately, others conspire against her happiness, and our bird needs you, Raven. Everything we’ve worked for since she came into our lives has steered her to this point: in love, in control of her powers, in command of her life, surrounded by loyal friends, and filled with awesome experiences. Today, the X-Men, the caretakers of our Rogue, are besieged by enemies they can’t see, and if things continue uninterrupted, I’m afraid our daughter will not live. Your actions since my death have staved off this assault till now, till Rogue can survive the challenges ahead, till she can do us proud.

After you send Emma Frost’s unconscious self to Henry McCoy’s darker twin, go to the X-Men’s mansion as soon as possible. Don’t worry--young love will see Emma through. The man Rogue is involved with, Gambit, is away in New Orleans, and it is vital he returns to the mansion--one of my obsessive readers is out for his blood, and I’m sure you know which one. Use whatever means necessary but stay in New York. Help Rogue with her battles and lend your talents to the X-Men. Tell her the reasons for our actions, however ludicrous they may sound to her. You’ll be surprised how much she still loves her mama. Have four things in mind.

Laughter chases away the anger.

Stay far away from Psylocke’s room.

Keep them all stable, away from the poles, away from the daughter.

When you are in a checkmate, have the black queen remove her own knight.

I am sorry. The visions become no clearer even in my old age. The future once again grows dim from my sight, but today, I give you a chance to reclaim our daughter’s love. Her well-being has sustained you after my death, and I hope her happiness will light your heart in days to come.

Be free from me, Raven. Know we will always love each other, but like Rogue, you must love me enough to let me go. My destiny will not change, but you, your destiny twists and turns. You have to continue your long life, if not for me, then for our daughter. Live. Love. Laugh. All again. This is my end but your beginning.

Fly, Raven. Heal your wings and fly.

Forever yours,

Irene.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 20

Title: Dropped Calls, Bad Service

Chapter 19: Dropped Calls, Bad Service

Lorna shot up this time.

*****************

Fantomex glanced between Cyclops and Wolverine. “You want me to do what?”

“Lead us to The World,” said Scott.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit!” Logan roared, grabbing the masked man by the trench coat and slamming him against the wall. “I just got a chunk of my stomach torn out and my mood’s not pretty. You start singing like a canary or I’ll skin you like a bear.”

“Is this how X-Men treat all their guests?”

Logan rammed his fist into the man’s kidneys.

A dangerous spark of energy came from behind Scott’s visor. “This is how we treat enemies, Weapon XIII.”

Fantomex sighed. “So you found out.”

“We have our ways,” Scott smugly noted.

“Do you people even know what The World is?”

“We were hopin’ you could shed some light on that, bub.”

“You didn’t play by our rules, Fantomex, and we don’t appreciate cheaters.”

Logan unsheathed the claws on his left hand. “The X-Men ain’t nobody’s fools.”

Despite being threatened, Fantomex nodded. “I’ll lead you to The World on one condition.”

“You’re not in a position to bargain, bub.”

“It’s more of a prerequisite,” he elaborated. “I have to use my ship, E.V.A., to get in and she only holds three people. I’m assuming Wolverine here is coming because The World holds a great deal about his past.” Logan raised his eyebrow but kept himself skeptical. “So that only leaves one other spot. Can I assume it’s going to be you, Cyclops?”

The two X-Men spared each other a quick look before nodding at their guest.

****************

“A flayer?”

“A flayer.”

“I’m afraid to ask what a flayer is.”

“Well, it... umm... how should I say this... It’s job is to keep lesser demons from acting up. Since there’s few of them and lots of the others, they have these extensions coming out of their bodies and shadows and they use them to flay their brethren, to teach them a lesson, hence the name ‘flayer.’”

“Is flaying also how they heal themselves?”

“Yes it is, actually. They don’t regenerate because it takes too long in their line of work, so they just rip bleeding hunks out of their surrounding demon folk and absorb it. Now, tell me sis, how do you know...”

Betsy swore she heard a light bulb go off in Brian’s mind. If they weren’t talking on the phone, she would’ve reached over a cuffed the side of his head. As it stood...

“Brian, hand Meggan the phone, please.”

“Sure luv, hang on.”

Shuffle, shuffle, then an overly joyful, “Hello Betsy!”

“Meggan, could you hit Brian for me?”

“Of course!”

Shuffle, crack, then an “OUCH!”

Giggle, giggle, groan, shuffle. “Did you have something to do with this, sister of mine? My own wife nearly broke the phone on my face.”

“That’s for not living up to your mantle of Captain Obvious. Honestly Brian, for the ruler of everywhere not earth, you can be pretty dense.”

“Well, this dense brother wants you to come back to Braddock manor. We’ll get Doctor Strange over here and figure all the ins and outs of your body. And sorry about this, but as much as I love the X-Men, I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be going back into the fold so soon. You never know what they get themselves into.”

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Betsy, “With so many of us here, any troublemakers would be insane to take us on. Besides, what could one more night hurt? I’ll catch the next flight tomor-”

*BETSY!*

The telepathic scream crossed Betsy’s eyes and loosened her grip on the phone. Emma. Another woman with a gun. A sharp pain. Darkness. Betsy opened their psychic rapport but couldn’t reach the blonde. No amount of yelling, forcing, or pleading woke the woman from whatever slumber she was put into. The mild comfort? Emma wasn’t dead, but Betsy still worried.

She caught her breath. Trust, Emma trusted her. In the turmoil, desperation, and surprise, she called out for her. No one else in the mansion would go help. Emma had no one else to trust. Her students? No, she’d never put her students in harm’s way. Betsy was Emma’s last and only hope.

“Get your ass into gear,” Betsy mumbled to herself.

No time to waste now. Emma gave her a second chance at life by destroying the Shadow King, and not repaying her, attraction or no, wasn’t the way Betsy functioned. She threw on her workout clothes and bolted out the door, unsure where to go and what to do.

“Hello?” came Brian’s worried voice from the dropped phone. “Hello? Betsy, what’s going on?”

Sage. Sage could find mutants. She had her computers and mutant powers and what nots. Where was Sage? Couldn’t find Sage because of her mental shields. Not time to look, move on.

Jean. Jean was the Phoenix, the Phoenix could do anything including finding Emma. Instead of taking the stairs, Betsy leapt from the second floor and landed in front of a startled Esme Stepford. The girl yelped in surprise, dropping the box of inhalers, syringes, and vials in her hands. Probably a student project or something. Too bad, no time, and couldn’t reach Jean telepathically. Right, she was the Phoenix and the Phoenix had other priorities.

The Professor. The Professor could go down to Cerebra and find Emma. No, Forge was fixing Cerebra. How did she know that? One of Emma’s memories, one from talking with Kitty. She had no use for the Professor since he’d probably be against her flying alone on the Blackbird.

“Are you sure you can fly it?”

“I’m not convinced at your mental stability.”

“Is Emma really in trouble?”

“Bring someone else along.”

Betsy didn’t have time for talking.

Up ahead lay the hangar. Sage. Jean. Professor. Couldn’t find ‘em or didn’t want to. Probably could use Rachel’s, Kitty’s, or Scott’s help, but she was at the hangar already. Getting them down here wasted precious time, time Emma didn’t have. Punching in a series of access codes, she opened the launching bay and darted into the X-Men’s signature ride. Sleek, fast, stealthy, and loaded, this plane would get her to Emma... if only she knew where she was.

Ignition. Take-off.

As she hurled through the night sky, Betsy peeled her fingers off the armrest and scrunched her brows. The haze of a few seconds ago left her.

“What the hell am I doing?”

Going after Emma with no back-up, no idea where she was at, no clue where to go, and no plan? What kind of insane, half-baked impulse was that? Why was she suddenly so hasty and desperate? Her taking the Blackbird did no good except to make her fly in circles real fast. She still had a bond to Emma, and despite not getting feedback from the blonde, the persistence of their connection told her many things, like most important, Emma wasn’t in immediate danger.

A rational idea would be to focus on the blonde and judge her location by strength of their rapport like a psychic game of Marco Polo. This flying blind crap wouldn’t do. And when all was said and done, Betsy needed to call her brother and apologize for suddenly running out on him, twice--once now, once at dinner. Then she needed to apologize to Esme for knocking over her... her... syringes?

What was a student doing with syringes in the middle of the night? Never mind that, what was she doing in the mansion? A shudder of uncertainty coursed through Betsy’s spine. The mere recollection of going from reasonable to uncontrollable sickened her, and for the first time, she wondered what was happening behind the mansion’s curtains. Seemed like once she left the place, her thoughts cleared up and her impulses didn’t override her rationale.

Betsy massaged her temples. “What’s done is done.”

And what’s fact was Emma’s strengthening, but rapidly moving, presence. Betsy brought up the map on the screen. At the moment, the Blackbird flew south toward Manhattan, but the tugging sensation in her head told her Emma traveled west. To Betsy, following her vague bond affinity while flying the plane by hand felt too uncertain, which also meant unsafe, which also meant exciting. How fast should she be going? What would she do if she caught up with Emma? Was the blonde in a plane, train, or car? Well, if the speeds had anything to say, Emma was definitely in a plane. If Betsy concentrated enough, she could almost feel this other vehicle outstripping the Blackbird’s current pace.

She grinned.

“Time to see what this baby can do.”

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 21

Title: The Wrong Stuff

Chapter 20: The Wrong Stuff

“Foolish girl! You broke one of the vials!”

Old sack of bones could still bellow with the best of them. Esme glared at Magneto--or Xorn when he had his mask on, like right now--and hissed, “I ran into Psylocke! She tore through the mansion like a bullet and all I could do was brace myself!”

“Did anyone else see you?”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Do you have your mental shields up, as strong as you can have them?”

“I told you already, yes, my sisters won’t sense anything from me.”

“I’m not worried about your sisters,” chuckled Magneto. “My daughter, she approaches.”

Not a moment later, the door opened to admit a euphoric Lorna, eyes bloodshot and body swaying to a silent beat. Her clothes, left over from Kurt’s party, smelled of beer and cigar smoke. The normally opulent green hair dulled and her skin held shades of gray. She looked like a ephemeral being about to drift away.

“Papa,” she breathed.

“Ms. Dane?” gasped Esme, temporarily bowled over at seeing one her instructors as high as a kite.

“Oh,” Lorna giggled at the girl’s stare, “one of the Stepford girls. Are you the bad one or the good ones?”

A brush against her mental barriers pulled Esme out of her shock. So innocuous the touch that if Esme wasn’t trying to look, she wouldn’t have caught the subtle--but nonetheless powerful--waves of emotion flowing from Lorna. Last she remembered, Ms. Dane’s abilities paralleled Magneto’s, but whatever she did now seemed more like an out of control empath’s. Emma Frost said a few words about this once, noting that some psychic energies could be indiscriminately exuded to influence those in the general vicinity.

She backed away and glanced at Magneto. “What’s she doing?”

“Helping us. I told you we would succeed, that mutantkind will rise and rule. Did you think I said those words in jest?”

“But... but... what about me?”

“You are the future,” the man said proudly, “You will be the shining example to all mutants who endure human oppression. Your actions will galvanize those who think they have no choice and spur them to our cause. You have the honor of being my first disciple.”

But Esme didn’t want to be a disciple. She wanted to rule alongside Magneto, not be his banner or pet project. The point behind this rebellion was empowerment, and she didn’t feel particularly empowered by standing next to two highly trained, well experienced, certifiably insane, and incredibly deadly mutants. Smart little Esme didn’t want to die either, so she kept her mouth shut. Deducing the best course of action, she played the role of glassy-eyed follower.

“What should this disciple do?”

Magneto threw an odd, green colored vial at her. “Eliminate Marvel Girl.”

The container might’ve garnered her attention, but Esme wasn’t deaf. “You want me to kill Rachel Summers?!”

“You’re holding a lethal variation of Kick. One dose causes the user’s powers to overload and their body to breakdown. Inject the Summers girl and the expulsion of her psychic remains will neutralize all unready telepaths in the vicinity. Then, our plan will begin in earnest.”

“Wait, I handed the last shipment of Kick to you. There wasn’t anything like this in it.”

“Do you think I rely on you and Toad for every aspect of my machinations?”

Ok, Esme had no problems going ahead with nefarious plans, double-crossing many of her instructors, and making life difficult for humans. Absolutely none at all. Her issues came when Magneto, Master of Magnetism, nemesis of the X-Men, tapped her to take out one of the most powerful telepaths on the face of the planet.

Back to her original contention. “You want me to kill Rachel Summers with a needle?!”

“She’s drunk,” Lorna butted in as she steadied herself on the dresser. “Kitty and Shan... the three of them are wasted. I checked on them at Harry’s. She’ll be too far gone to see anyone coming, let alone a innocent little student with a needle.”

“I... I...”

Magneto put his hand on her shoulder. “Esme, this is war. Killing is a given. The true soldiers have the fortitude to forge through the darkness and emerge with victory. Are you a true disciple?”

Only one correct answer to the question. “Yes.”

“Good. You learn quickly. Now go.”

Afraid for her life, Esme nodded and hurried out, presumably to do her task. When the door closed, Lorna laughed and shrugged at her father.

“Do you think she’ll do it, Papa?”

“Which one? Attempt or succeed?”

“Both.”

“Neither.”

“Then why did you tell her to kill Rachel?”

“My daughter, this mansion stands on its last leg--any disturbance will send it tumbling down. If Esme even attempts the deed, she will be the X-Men’s target, which leaves us alone to surprise our enemies. If she doesn’t, I will know her convictions and act accordingly.”

“You’re so smart, Papa.”

*****************

Mystique never used front doors, never believed in them. Why knock when breaking and entering was so much more sophisticated and interesting? Nothing beat the surprised look on someone’s face when they came into a private sanctum and saw an intruder drinking their expensive liquor. Priceless stuff, and as much as Mystique loved Irene, the woman was absolutely no fun in that regard. Surprising a precognitive? Impossible.

But surprising Rogue was possible, so Mystique planned to pass up the front doors of the Xavier Institute and go straight for her daughter’s window. Seriously, what mother wouldn’t know which room her daughter stayed in? None, except for estranged mothers, and Mystique didn’t consider herself an estranged mother yet.

Key word, yet.

Another reason for breaking and entering: Rogue wasn’t speaking to her. Actually, Mystique wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the X-Men, least of all Chucky Egghead Xavier. With such delightful facts in mind, Raven Darkholme parked her car a few miles down the road, sneaked onto the premise, and went around back. In all honesty, the sudden rumble of jet engines and the Blackbird taking off scared her half to death, but she kept a solid lock on her reaction.

Oddly, when she got within a few hundred feet of the mansion, a well of anger sprung up inside of her. Damned X-Men and them keeping Rogue away from her. They didn’t raise Rogue, she and Irene did. Bunch of meddlesome, human loving cretins held her daughter in some kind of brainwashed state. She’d show them. She’d show Rogue who had her best intentions in mind. Ungrateful bi-

No, wait, timeout. Mystique breathed deeply and stilled her raging heart. Had to remember she circumscriptively sent Rogue here. Had to remember the animosity between daughter and mother was an act to keep Rogue safe, at least from Mystique’s own end. Had to remember Irene’s last words. Calling upon her masterful emotional control and whatever mental barriers she had, Mystique pushed the chaos away and refocused on her daughter. However, despite her best effort, each step continued to infuriate her, and the closer she got to the mansion, the more she just wanted to bomb the damned place and get everything over with.

“What’s going on?” she muttered to herself.

Xavier called this X-Men breeding ground a school, and by the oppressive air weighing on her, she gathered he wasn’t running a tight enough ship. Maybe another crazy mutant pet project got let loose. Wonder if she could take Rogue out of the school by citing the atmosphere as not conducive to her daughter’s well-being.

You know, like all those worried American parents out there.

“This school isn’t safe. My children aren’t safe here. It’s a terrible environment. The lunches make them fat. I’m going to have them home schooled.”

The image of her marching into Xavier’s office and demanding a tuition refund brought a smile to her face, lessening the negative emotions enough to get a handle on. She giggled to herself.

“Laughter chases away the anger,” she quoted from Irene’s diary. She tilted her head to the sky. “Always looking out for me and my temper, aren’t you?”

Mental note: stay away from Psylocke’s room, wherever it may be. The stuff about poles and chess Mystique could worry about later: Irene’s predictions always made more sense when the moment approached.

That’s it, think about Irene. Her playfulness. Her sweet voice. Her razor sharp wit. Her many... talents.

Didn’t take long to scale the wall up to Rogue’s window, and would you know it, the girl even left the window open a crack. Christ sake, it was the middle of winter, at least keep the window closed. Could catch a bad cold this way.

“Mystique?”

The woman in question envisioned this going a lot better. For one, saying “Mystique” instead of “Mama” cut to the bone, but it was a wound she’d silently bore for years. Second, she didn’t expect Rogue to catch her while sneaking in.

A nightlight turned on, bathing the cozy room in a warm glow. The combination of antiquity--old standing lamps, an oak dressing screen, a four large post bed--blended with down-home Cajun flair--brash colors, a fully occupied hat rack, pulp art posters. Rogue curled herself inside layers of down comforters and other toasty coverings, making her appear to be a large hot dog.

“Ah don’t care whatcha doin’, Mystique,” the brunette glowered, “Get out.”

First thing’s first. “Is Psylocke’s room nearby?”

Confusion. “Wha? No... Ah mean, get out!”

Mystique vaulted through the window and closed it behind her. “You’re going to catch a cold if you leave that thing open.”

“You... just... argh! You’re annoyin’, ya know that?!”

The metamorph’s eyes softened. “I’m here to help you, Rogue.”

“Help me?” she growled. “Help me with what?! Is this another one of yo plans to get rid of the X-Men?!”

“I’m here to help that boyfriend of yours, Remy LeBeau.”

“Remy ain’t even here! Don’t lie to me!”

Irene pegged Rogue in one word--stubborn. With the patience only a parent would have, Mystique said, “He’s in New Orleans on some kind of business.”

“How-”

“Irene told me. I... She...”

God, this was too hard, too soon. She couldn’t do this now, not after losing what little she had left of Irene. She couldn’t lock horns with Rogue like this. Any other kind of distress at any other time she could block out, but when it came to Irene and losing her, Raven couldn’t help herself. Rogue pushed all the memories of Irene to the forefront. At least back then she still had Irene’s diaries, still had a shard of her love to hang on to, but now, nothing. Nothing and her obstinate oaf of a daughter wouldn’t even listen to her.

This was too much.

Rogue had never seen tears on her mother’s face. The woman was so strong, her defenses so thick, her personality so evanescent that crying never figured into Rogue’s perception of her. The mere act brought the brunette out of her suspicious manner. Mystique might’ve been difficult to read, but right now, she looked crushed, no two ways about it.

Though Rogue had her misgivings, she wasn’t heartless either. Balancing family or friends, parent or enemy--hard stuff, but Rogue called upon her better judgment. She scooted aside, made room on her bed. In a small voice, she asked, “Ya wanna sit?”

“I made a mistake,” said Mystique, recovering as best she could, “You wanted me out, I’m out of here and out of your life for good.”

The honesty in her voice brought back Rogue’s childhood memories. For the adoptive daughter of two infamous mutants, she led an incredibly normal life. Irene walked her to school, always knowing when to pack her a lunch or when to press a few dollars into her hand in the case the cafeteria cooked up something good. The three had picnics in the park, often punctuated by Mama playing various pranks on other picnic-goers while she and Irene watched from behind some bushes. She had the usual growing-up experiences--Mama and Irene made sure of it.

But everything changed when her powers manifested. The three of them drifted apart emotionally. Irene and Mama involved her in their plans, which for a normal girl raised as normally as possible, didn’t sit well. Hell, Mama became outright hostile. The tenderness left her voice, and that’s when Mama turned into Mystique.

And this woman climbing out her window didn’t sound like Mystique.

“Mama?”

Mystique stiffened. The last whisper sounded so much like her young daughter she wanted to turn around and embrace her. But her young daughter grew up and the woman her daughter became didn’t want her here.

“I’m sorry, Irene,” Mystique quietly whispered, “I can’t do this.”

“What did you say, Mama? I couldn’t hear ya.”

Mystique jumped and rolled with the fall. The unforgiving December cold bit at her, but she got up and ran. She ran from Irene’s memory. She ran from Rogue. She ran from her destiny. The desperate idiot in her thought that if she didn’t follow through on Irene’s words then nothing would happen and she would still have the last page of Irene’s last diary to relive every day.

Branches slapped her. Recently fallen snow slowed her. Wind pelted her. Closer the mansion walls came. Closer, then freedom. Freedom to live every day like today and never face tomorrow.

An arm wrapped around her waist, and before she could yelp, she found herself flying into the night sky. Her turmoil lessened, but the sadness still lingered. At least she had control of her voice.

“Put me down, Rogue.”

“No, Mama, not till you tell me why you cryin’.”

“Now I’m suddenly Mama?!” she snapped, unable to hold down her bitterness. “Where were you when Irene died?! She loved you, Rogue! She gave everything to you! I GAVE EVERYTHING TO YOU! Where were you?!”

“Ah was here! Ah didn’t do nothin’ cuz ah didn’t want you rippin’ off ma face! If ya forgot, ah wasn’t ‘xactly on yo Christmas list back then!”

Everything changed when Rogue’s powers manifested, and still to this day, Mystique chaffed at not being able to protect her daughter on her own. The X-Men, ever a source of conflict between the two. As if two minutes and a bowl of tears would heal every hurt. Wishful freakin’ thinking. Those furious exclamations about Irene probably confused the poor girl more than they placated her.

“Ya never cried like this. It... it’s scarin’ me.”

Mystique gazed into her daughter’s eyes. Strong, beautiful, confident, compassionate--the scrawny little girl grew up well. What parent wouldn’t be proud? The heartache, the lies, the separation, and the battles distilled down to this rock who supported her mother. Somewhere in the tears for Irene, a scant handful joyfully rolled out for Rogue. Now, clutched in the arms of her baby, Mystique felt old, every one of her long years grating on her like a pestle on a mortar.

A parent once said life is only as fulfilling as one’s children.

The bone weariness didn’t seem so bad anymore. A woman could get used to this sort of thing, the feeling proud part at least.

The sadness slowed. “I’m a wreck, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be like that, Mama. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong? Rogue, that will take the whole night.”

“Ah got the time.”

“But that boy of yours doesn’t. Let’s deal with him first, then we talk.”

Rogue shivered, perhaps of the cold, perhaps in worry. “What kinda trouble Remy into this time?”

“In a word? Vargas.”

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 22

Title: The World is a Vampire

Chapter 21: The World is a Vampire

Sleeping on sofas did wonders for the human back.

Or was that sleeping on sofas showed the wonders of the human back?

Laying in such a way a seven year old contortionist would envy, Rachel Summers snored and drooled like a partied out sorority girl. On the coffee table sprawled Kitty Pryde, equally snoring but dignity preserved by avoiding the drool. X’ian Coy Manh, or Shan to her friends, was suppose to be the responsible one tonight, but the sea of bottles--Stoli, Jager, Morgan’s, Jack--squashed that impression. The mansion commons resembled a college war-zone, which was what these three overstressed, overworked, and overtaxed friends needed: a trip back into the carefree days of studying hard and partying harder.

Of course, Shan and Kitty played devious corruptors to Rachel’s willing corruptee.

Esme Stepford, murder on her mind, walked into this endearing scene, gripped tight in her pocket the deadly dose of Kick to kill Rachel. Sweat droplets rolled off her brow. She could taste--taste, not just smell--the alcohol on the air. Moonlight filtering into the darkened room revealed all she needed: her victim and her victim’s current state.

Shan, Kitty, and half-empty booze guarded Rachel. One wrong step and that stray glass could tip over that bottle which would wake everyone up. Another wrong step would probably land on a person’s appendage, again leading to more alarms sounding.

Had to be silent. Had to move slow. She kept her back against the wall and circumnavigated the room--less debris to run into that way. Kitty shifted in her sleep, scaring Esme half to death when Rachel emulated the sleepy movements. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Esme meandered her way to the back of the commons, to the back of the sofa. Rachel Summers, one mighty telepath in her own right, lay helpless before her.

Death never held Esme’s interest, but this rush of power, of holding another’s life in her hand, this got her blood pumping. How much more had this woman experienced? How much more power did she have? None of it mattered because Esme Stepford controlled her fate, and Esme Stepford hated people like Rachel Summers.

Do gooder. Righteous fool. All that power and what did she do? Cower before humans and fight her own brethren. She didn’t deserve it, and for once in her life, Esme could do something about her indignation.

Esme decided she didn’t like death, but murder she could grow to like.

She pulled the vial out of her pocket and began fitting the needle to it. A test squirt ran smooth, green liquid shooting out on command.

Esme shuddered, unexpected pleasure filling her.

Sweet dreams, princess. At least you’ll go out with a bang.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs before she could close the distance between excitement and euphoria. Wisely, the girl ducked behind the couch and held her breath.

Jean Grey stumbled into the room seconds later, panting for air and flicking on the lights. Three annoyed groans came from the inebriated women.

“Rachel,” said Jean, fear in her voice, “Scott and Logan are hurt.”

Drunk? Yes, they were drunk off their asses, but never say X-Men didn’t pull together when need be, even ex-X-Men and X-Men who weren’t called upon. Hearing of friends and family in trouble, Shan, Kitty, and Rachel wobbled to their feet as best they could.

“Come on,” the older red head commanded, “I’ll fill you in on the way to the planes. We don’t have any time to waste.”

The entourage made their out of the commons and into another series of problems. Esme stayed behind the couch and wiped the cold sweat off her brow.

*****************

“The World” exploded, smaller sections of the supposed Weapons Plus base disintegrating while more resilient chunks limped along to their approaching demise. Far from the fireworks, one lone craft whizzed back into the earth’s atmosphere.

Fantomex lit one of Wolverine’s cigars. Smoking through a ski mask wasn’t easy, but he still did it... and nearly puked. He glared at the stick of stolen tobacco before crushing it in his hands.

“Christ, you’d think a man like him would have been taste in cigars.”

E.V.A. didn’t bother to answer.

“I know, I know,” he said to his detached nervous system, “You hate it when I smoke or drink.”

Still no answer.

“Growin’ an attitude? Fine, I got other things to do.”

Moves quick and efficient, he flipped open a laptop and fitted on an earpiece. The conference window immediately popped up after he logged in.

“Payday,” he smiled.

His mysterious, mechanical-sounding employer, _AttrioR_, didn’t agree with the statement. “This is only part two of our terms, Fantomex.”

“Which, upon completion, nets me half of the final price. I’m not movin’ another muscle till I see the zeroes spin on my Grand Cayman account.”

“Welcome to digital age, Fantomex. The transfer is instantaneous.”

And indeed, the millions were already in his burgeoning funds. “Why, I must say, Mr. Attrior, you are one of my most pleasant and favorite clients thus far. Concise orders. No bullshit. Speed of light transactions. I have to give you my highest recommendations.”

“Do you want a medal?”

“No,” the man laughed, slapping his thigh, “but some equally glowing feedback would do my ego wonders.”

“Job half finished. Talks too much. Good timing. May do business again. Score pending.”

Fantomex whistled through his teeth. “Tough man to please, aren’t ya?”

“Complete the job and I will be much friendlier to deal with.”

“Well, you heard the customer, E.V.A. Got to fill the piggy bank. Set course for Manhattan!”

*****************

Most men wouldn’t dare to lounge on their ex-wife’s sofa. Then again, most men weren’t named Remy LeBeau; most men didn’t have to deal with serial killers out to get them neither. The long night, growing frustration, and flat-out exhaustion drove Remy to this awfully comfy piece of furniture while Bella Donna talked on the phone to various paranoid, angry, and or hysterical Guild leaders.

Most men wouldn’t dare go near their ex-wife while she beat down another warpath. Remy was the exception because despite their differences, he appreciated Bel’s lovely curves. If he imagined hard enough, Rogue’s face would pop up over the blonde’s and he could pretend he lay peacefully at home.

That is, until said woman threw the receiver down after a taxing conversation.

Remy rubbed his eyes. “Mercy, Bel, dat phone’s gonna break in two if ya keep it up.”

“Someone is going to broken in two if he doesn’t take his muddy shoes off my couch.”

“Sorry,” he smiled, but made no attempt to remove his boots, “Remy too tired.”

“Guild members are dropping like flies and you come here to sleep?”

“Mon dieu, Remy been goin’ ‘round town like a tour bus. Can’t he get a l’il nap?”

“Sleep when you’ve caught the killer!”

Too tired to argue, he rolled onto his side, away from the blonde noisemaker.

“Typical,” Bella Donna snorted, “Ignoring everything not Remy LeBeau. It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

Yup, too tired to argue. Just keep telling yourself that.

“You’re the leader of the Guild, and what are you doing? Prancing around up north with the X-Men. Takes spilled blood to even get your attention.”

Maybe if he pulled the cushion over his head she’d stop talking.

“That’s right, LeBeau. If you close those devilish eyes, maybe this’ll all go away.”

No, she didn’t stop. Remy ripped the fluffy object away and sat straight up. “Wat you want from Remy, chere?! Remy’s here, Remy’s tryin’, and Remy’s done tired!”

“But the Guild is family, and you’re never he-”

“Dis ain’t ‘bout da Guild, Bel! You bein’ unreasonable! Da Guild is Remy’s family too, and he don’t like seein’ family dead neither! You know Remy ain’t here cuz he want no part o’ da fightin’ ‘tween y’all, not cuz he don’t care.”

“So you leave the Guild’s problems to me because you think I like dealing with the drama?!”

“Ya don’t, Bel?” he quietly asked. “Don’t be tellin’ Remy ya don’t like de respect, de status, or de power. Drama’s de price for de goods. Dats de difference ‘tween you n’ Remy--he don’t want none o’ dat.”

Bella Donna loved Remy at one point in her life, but even when she loved him, she never understood him. “What do you want then?”

He laid back down on the sofa. “Freedom,” he replied.

“Freedom?”

“Freedom to do whatever Remy wants, whenever he wants.”

“So you go and join the X-Men?”

“Felt like a good idea at de time,” he shrugged. “Still feel like a pretty good idea now.”

The phone interrupted their spat. Still seething, Bella Donna picked up and growled, “What?”

There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end. “Can ah speak to Remy LeBeau?”

“Who is this?!”

His hearing none too bad, Remy heard his name mentioned and reached for the receiver. “Hand it over, Bel. Dis be Remy’s call.”

She capitulated, but not before throwing a nasty glare at him. Most men would’ve wilted before their ex-wife’s evil eye. Remy just let it slid off of him.

“’lo. Remy here.”

“Remy, ah don’t got time ta explain nothin’. Ya gotta get outta New Orleans!”

First his ex-wife scares the pants off of him, now his girlfriend. “Hold up, Roguey! What be da problem?”

“The guy in New Orleans killin’ people is Vargas!”

Vargas, huh? Well, that made a lot of sense. Here was a strong dude with a long sword, a whole lot of ability, and a grudge to settle. Rogue kicked his tail last time, and a person like him would naturally seek revenge. Kill Gambit to get to Rogue--deviously simple. Explained every strange thing he’d seen tonight, including the one man-sized wrecking ball (complete with nasty battle cry and sharp blade) breaking down Bella Donna’s front door and charging for him this very second.

“Roguey?”

“Yeah Remy?”

“Help.”

The line went dead.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 23

Title: Extreme Violence

Chapter 22: Extreme Violence

A kidnapped blonde.

An angry rescuer.

A secluded base surrounded by vegetation.

Sounded like a recipe for an ass kicking.

Over the last half hour, Betsy chased Emma’s bond to a fast, apparently automated, one-person jet. Could barely keep up with it in the Blackbird, and shooting the plane down mid-air would hurt, if not kill, a still unconscious Emma. Out of options, Betsy followed it here, to a large patch of wilderness outside of Chicago. While rappelling from the Blackbird and maiming any surrounding hostiles would’ve been fun, Betsy still needed her borrowed ride to get her and Emma home.

Make no mistakes about it: there were enemies here, lots of them. What self-respecting X-Men hater wouldn’t have a posse? After noting where Emma’s jet landed, Betsy circled the Blackbird around and set down a mile away, far enough to be undetected but close enough to use the Bird’s technologies.

Infrared scans showed teams of people--four groups of four with one team accompanied by a dog.

Satellite images painted uneven, tree-filled terrain camouflaging a hillside outcropping. Emma’s tiny jet disappeared into that area.

An analysis of the electrical flow warned of security cameras and all sorts of other no trespassing goodies.

Her telepathic powers would easily disable the armed guards. A quick slip of the knife to the right places would cut power to the joint. In ten minutes she could have this base defenseless and at its knees.

But what fun would that be? She’d already bypassed a chance for extreme violence, but to also ignore a perfect opportunity at covert espionage? Wasn’t happening. Ninjas were stealth personified, and Betsy liked to think of herself as amongst the very best. Been too long since she used the whole of her abilities, and now sounded like as good of a time to move into the base unnoticed.

After all, she had no idea what lay inside that base. Could be anyone from HYDRA to Stryfe. As it stood, Emma had plenty of enemies to choose from.

“Hang on, Emma,” Betsy whispered to herself and over their bond, “I’m coming for you.”

Dark purple Nike track pants and a matching windbreaker--not the average sneaking apparel, but good enough. The canopy and pitch darkness provided ample cover. Thank heaven for the moonless night. Betsy slipped from the Blackbird and melted into the shadows like a ghost.

She took to the trees, silently jumping and diving between them. Her new claws helped, strengthening her grip and allowing her to latch to places she otherwise would’ve had no way to hold onto. No use for breath and no way to tire, she made her way to the base in what had to be record time.

She also ran into her first obstacle: a band of guards, the one with the dog.

They worked well together, moving as one, covering each other’s backs and canvassing their surroundings like true professionals. Each man cradled a submachine gun, the staple MP-5 if Betsy wasn’t mistaken. Their dog sniff away, but Betsy’s demon body provided it with no scent. They had infrared goggles, but she had no heat for them to pick up. Anticipation pumped through the group, their greedy minds straying by the second as this “easy money” job winded down.

Mercenaries. Betsy frowned at the word. She hated these honorless, soulless soldiers of fortune. Anything to get the job done, they did. Anything to line their pockets, they did. They held no allegiances and had no morals.

Fucking Mercenaries. Made killing them so much easier.

Dropping down from her hiding place, she wrapped her thighs around the rear guard’s neck and turned. As she dismounted, her hand grabbed another by the collar and rammed his face into a tree trunk, jarring loose teeth and splintering wood. The dog went next, a swift, merciful kick knocking it out cold. One of the men tried to radio in, but she pulled his combat knife from his vest and slit his throat in one smooth motion.

Pivot. Cock. Release.

The bloody knife found a new home in the last mercenary’s right eye socket.

The battle happened so quick the dog didn’t even get a chance to bark. Betsy ripped one of the radios off a corpse and shoved it in her pocket. Four down, twelve to go. She stayed on the ground this time.

Her next target didn’t take long to find. The mercenaries stayed in shouting distance of each other, sweeping the perimeter in a staggered, clockwise direction. This group proved to be smarter, staying in the security cameras’ lines of sight as much as they could. Wasn’t long before they’d stumble upon their comrades’ remains and sound the alarm.

Betsy had no intention of letting things get out of hand. She closed her eyes and used her psychic powers.

The group’s anxiousness rose, leading to higher heart rates. Hands grew damp from perspiration, and, fearing slippage, they held their guns a little tighter. The fear brewed, clustering into paranoia, curiosity tinted paranoia. What was that in the forest just beyond their vision? What was that sound? Where the shadows moving?

Their group tactics broke down; they strayed from the camera’s range.

“Mike, you hear something?”

“Shush. Ain’t hear nothing if you’re talkin’!”

“Quiet, both of you. Robert, take point. Mike, call HQ and advise them we might’ve found something. Advise Alpha and Gamma teams to converge.”

Show time.

A psi-blast rendered the person radioing in catatonic. Betsy glided from the shadows and raked her talons across the leader’s neck. Her foot smashed into another’s jaw, propelling his unconscious self into the bushes. The survivor tried to bring his gun up and fire, but his sweaty palms made him fumble a split second, enough time for Betsy to snare his weapon, drag him to the ground, and pin him down using the MP-5’s strap as leverage.

She flexed her claws in his face. “How do I get inside?”

The captive considered yelling for help, but his captor’s feral grin and gory claws stifled his reaction. He decided to stay silent.

“I’m only asking you to be nice, luv. As you can see, I’m a mutant, and my devastating good looks aren’t my only ability.”

Brave till the bitter end. “Go to hell, you freak.”

Betsy’s eyes clouded. “After I pull all the info I want from you, I can turn your mind into a four year old’s. Make it easy on yourself. How do I get inside?”

He spat at her. “You’re bluffing.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Her fingers closed around his temples and he struggled for breath. Choking sounds died in his throat as his body shivered. Blood trickled down his nose. After a gasp, he stilled and Betsy removed her hands.

Someone named Attrior hired these mercenaries to protect this military research installation from mutant attack. They’d been here for three weeks and no one saw signs of the military, much less a researcher. Two ways in: through the landing zone in which small planes would occasionally touch down or through a reinforced steel door leading directly to the security room responsible for the outer perimeter. They knew more things lay inside the sprawling complex, but mercenaries were never allowed to venture into it. A curious merc tried exploring once, but no one heard from him ever again.

The radio she stole squawked.

“Bravo team, come in Bravo team.”

So they checked up on their squads--smart, professional people these mercenaries. Of the many talents the Hand graced her with, Betsy’s least practiced one was voice mimicry. Life as a frontline X-Man combatant didn’t call for the ability, and she found herself using it more as a novelty than every day tool. To Scott’s never ending embarrassment, he could attest to that. However, right now, mimicry came in handy.

The bastard Matsu’o was onto something when he said assassins should exploit modern weaknesses with ancient methods.

Betsy cleared her throat and held the radio close to her mouth to distort the sound. “Bravo team here,” she said in her best gruff male imitation, “All clear.”

“Copy that, Bravo team. Checking back in fifteen. HQ out.”

Fifteen minutes, huh? She dumped her current radio and picked up one from the newly dead unit. Had to move to cut off the next group. Eight down, eight to go. She kept working in a counter-clockwise direction relative to the base, and soon enough, she met her next victims.

Had to be fast. Fifteen minutes. Fourteen now, and counting. No time to be stealthy or subtle with this bunch. She came at them from the side.

“Catch.”

The mercs turned at the word and Betsy’s radio rocketed from the bushes, thrown with so much force the antenna embedded itself into a skull. Next charged Betsy, tackling the only woman of the group to the ground. Psylocke grabbed her opponent’s MP-5 and pulled the trigger without looking, shooting both of the men behind her in their chests. A second later, the butt of the gun screamed into the last mercenary’s face, producing a menacing crack.

A radio, the one she lifted off the previous squad and used as a weapon, squawked.

“Delta team, this is HQ, come in Delta team.”

Betsy ripped the offending device from a man’s forehead. “Delta team reporting. Possible disturbance sighted. Investigating. Advise other teams.”

“All other teams reporting to Delta team’s position. HQ out.”

She swapped radios again, this time taking the one belonging to the woman. Despite not liking guns, Betsy looped a fresh MP-5 onto her shoulder.

Wasted precious on that fight and foraging, but it was necessary. Twelve and half minutes now, and the last team was still a ways off. Betsy took to the trees and skipped over underbrush which would’ve slowed her. Eleven minutes, and right on top of the final group. They happened to be close to the entrance by the time Betsy encountered them.

A lone camera, perched atop the steel door entrance, stared at the remaining team as they waded through bushes. Strange for a door to be built into the side of a hill--not to mention costly--but it sure was secretive and easily tenable.

Ten minutes, forty three seconds. Luck was on her side--ahead of schedule and still undiscovered.

Steady. Aim. Fire.

The three-round burst disabled the camera. The squad looked up in surprise, in time to be riddled with bullets.

“Alpha team! Do you copy?! Shots fired in your vicinity!”

Betsy dropped down and snatched a radio from a body. Once more pretending to be a man, she said, “Alpha team here. Spotted the enemy.” Grinning, she pulled the other radio from her pocket and returned to her feminine voice. “Delta team responding. Moving out.”

“Stay alert out there. HQ going into radio silence.”

Perfect. She waited two minutes, fired randomly into the forest, slinked her way to the metal door, and hid behind a tree about ten feet to the side of the door. Seven minutes left.

“HQ, this is Alpha team. Intruder captured and returning to base. Open up.”

Open up it did. Two men walked out and looked about, confused at not seeing their returning comrades. Confusion turned into terror when a cold chill seized their throats. They fell onto the wet ground, and as much as they wanted to yell for help, no sound escaped their lips. Last thing they saw were slender feet slipping into the base and the door closing.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 24

Title: Hitting the Fan

Chapter 23: Hitting the Fan

“We gotta help Remy!”

“How are we getting to New Orleans, Rogue? I saw the Blackbird take off when I came in-”

“There’s new ones. Kurt called these somethin’ like a Mark 3. Ain’t as big, but they’re a ton faster.”

From their spot outside of Mystique’s car, they saw two planes ascend from the mansion and into the night sky. The red haired woman glanced at her daughter. “How many of these Mark 3s does Xavier have?”

Crestfallen, Rogue’s shoulders slumped. “Two.”

Irene, you devil. Use whatever means possible to help Gambit but stay in New York? And from a murderous Vargas? While Mystique herself wouldn’t go very far for the crafty Cajun, her daughter--if her frantic pacing, repeated dialing on the cell phone, and free flowing tears were any indication--would go to the ends of the world for him. Young love... made Mystique feel nostalgic.

Now, however, she felt a good deal pissed off since it was her daughter’s young love being destroyed by an insane fanatic, the same fanatic Irene insisted be saved from an early death so he could “challenge” the X-Men and provide Rogue with a scenario to use her powers to the fullest.

Vargas. Raven Darkholme never liked the man, and if he didn’t serve a purpose in Irene’s plans, she would’ve left him to his demise years ago.

Oh Irene, did you need this madman to give our daughter her final exam on her mutant powers? Mystique said it then and she said it a million times since, people like him--mutant or human--were only trouble. Sure, Irene had this grand future in mind, this scheme which would give Rogue the best life possible, but was he necessary? What was she thinking? Was she out of her mind or-

Mystique’s eyes widened. “Have you ever used your powers on a telepath?”

“Once. Scott had me ‘sorb the Professor when Mastermind struck.”

The metamorph grabbed her daughter’s hand and sprinted back in the direction of the mansion.

“Mama! Whatcha doin’?”

“Saving your Cajun. Think about it: we can use Cerebra to amplify Xavier’s powers and stop Vargas.”

Hearing those words, Rogue slung her mother onto her shoulder and flew top speed into the mansion, down past the medlabs, and smack into the X-Men’s most jealously guarded piece of technology. A series of numbers got punched onto the keypad, and the adamantium reinforced door slid away.

Cerebra lay here like a slumbering behemoth. Every inch of it alien in design, the sterile metal environment weighed down on all its occupants. The walls held an otherworldly sheen and the air inside smelled stale, the personality driven from the room by unfathomable science. The infamous cap, the headpiece, the key to this awesome machine, rested on a pedestal, aloof from the rest of the instruments. A large hologram displayed global happenings by itself, tracking mutant movement and analyzing potential threats.

As the door closed, Rogue set Mystique down and took in her surroundings. She’d been here before, but never to use this beast, never to control its awesome knowledge. Even Mystique gaped at the sight, but she snapped out of it quickly.

“Do you know how to work this thing?”

“No,” said a voice which didn’t belong to either Mystique or Rogue, “And you’re not going to learn how if I’ve got something to say about it.”

Guns drawn, Forge stepped out from behind a pylon. His attention focused on Mystique, but he kept a tab on Rogue as well, tracking both women like target practice.

“Forge,” the red haired woman snarled, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

“Give me one good reason why I’m shouldn’t punch a hole in your goddamn head, Mystique.”

Rogue settled herself between the two. “She’s with me, Forge. Put those things away.”

He glanced from daughter to mother. Standard operating procedure called for him to stand down and reanalyze the situation. His logical side told him to listen to Rogue and put aside personal differences with Mystique. Unfortunately, Forge’s seldom seen impulsiveness snatched the driver’s seat.

“That’s not a good reason.”

The futuristic gun boomed like a cannon, its projectile harmlessly gazing Rogue’s shoulder and clipping the side of Mystique’s neck.

Blood. So much blood and all of it in slow motion Rogue turned and saw blood fountaining out of Mystique. Those yellow eyes bulged in hurt and surprise while the body fell to its knees. They had their differences; they had their fights; they were also mother and daughter. Rage erupted from the deepest recesses of Rogue’s heart, and instinctively, she creamed Forge so hard he made a Forge-shaped impression in the opposing wall. The man managed a small, pitiful, mental cry to the Professor before blacking out.

Blood. So much blood. Rogue ripped her sweater into tatters to put pressure on the wound. After a second, those yellow eyes cleared and Mystique weakly curled up the sides of her mouth.

“’s ok,” she murmured, patting her daughter’s blood soaked hands.

“It ain’t ok. Why’d Forge do that?”

Many reasons, not least of which included Mystique manipulating his affections and trying to kill him on more than one occasion. Too bad the man remained a terrible marksman when it mattered, never seeming to finish the enemy when need be. How many times had Fitzroy and other enemies escaped because he only clipped them? If the inventor stopped to ask himself, he’d find himself shamefully inadequate. So, the gunshot looked worse than it felt, but that’s not to say it felt good in any way, shape, or form. Forge might’ve been a terrible shot, but he wasn’t blind.

Suddenly, the mansion shook, but neither woman paid much attention. They had more important business.

“The Cajun,” moaned Mystique as her version of a healing factor kicked in.

The brunette stared long and hard at the Cerebra helm, but when her gaze returned to her hurt mother, she shook her head.

“Go,” Mystique hissed.

“No.”

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Ah can’t. Not when you’re like this.”

Another tremor snaked through the mansion, and this one put both women on alert.

“Hurry!”

Nodding reluctantly, Rogue made a beeline to the helm and dug up her template of the Professor. Knowledge inundated her mind as her DNA realigned to allow for the massive output of psychic energies. The complex setup before her deciphered itself, the buttons and status signs all making more sense. She logged in with Xavier’s password and waited for the system to prompt her for the next action.

Which didn’t happen.

That’s when it dawned on her: Cerebra needed fixing and that’s why Forge was down here at this odd hour on this odd day. Too bad this odd day was about to get a whole lot odder.

“Warning,” said the Cerebra intercom as an alarm blared, “Mansion defenses breached. Entering lock-down mode.”

Incited by the unexpected klaxon, Mystique shambled to her feet and leaned against a piece of equipment for support. “What’s happening?”

Rogue’s stolen telepathy told her all she needed to know.

“Magneto’s here.”

**********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 25

Title: The Darkness

Chapter 24: The Darkness

Emma heard whimpering. Her head hurt, her neck ached, her legs cramped, and her stomach lurched. Through it all, she heard a pathetic, annoying, continuous whimpering. Her immediate response was to silence the offender with her telepathy, but she couldn’t. Worry set in, and that was before an all too familiar voice made itself known.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

The whimpering grew more pathetic.

Emma gingerly sat up. The room? Nondescript, large, straight cement, big air vent in the ceiling, and lit by a single light bulb. The occupants? One was large, blue, muscular, and grinning. The other?

“Isa Hayes,” the blonde sneered.

The man shrieked and curled into an even tighter ball. His whimpering quickened.

“Ho ho ho, season’s greetings from the head of Frost to her employees! Don’t worry, my good man, she only bites the ones she love!”

Hayes she could deal with later. “McCoy,” she glowered as she clambered to her feet, “How come I’m not surprised to see you?”

They shared the same name, even the same DNA, but this McCoy differed greatly for the real McCoy. Dark Beast the people called him, some kind of insane alternate dimension displacee who made his refuge here. And what a refuge he made.

Emma knew: she helped him.

McCoy’s grin broadened. “I so love that exquisite tongue of yours, Madame Frost. Perhaps I could keep it for my own collection when we’re done tonight?”

Insane, and whole bunch sadistic this version of Hank. Something on his own world made him this way--brilliant and cutthroat. Years ago, when he first showed up here and before Emma got too involved with the Hellfire Club, they met by happenstance. Frost Enterprises was nothing more than a fledgling investment firm with high hopes; he, while retaining his genius, had no memories of himself.

They struck a deal: McCoy would work for Emma’s diversifying company, and after three years, she would telepathically restore his memories.

His many patents, all submitted by other less-than-savory researchers under Emma’s thumb, propelled Frost Enterprises into the mainstream. Almost overnight, billions fell into her lap. The little company no one had heard of became one of the Fortune 500. McCoy earned his keep. The two shared a respectful, business relationship in their three years, and Emma almost considered the hulking mass of muscle her friend.

The day came for her to fulfill her bargain. She expected a continued partnership, maybe even continued friendship.

She got something else entirely. McCoy gradually snapped, or maybe he immediately snapped but required Emma’s resources so didn’t show it, but whatever the case, he used her to plot moves against the X-Men. Given her then gross dislike of said X-Men, she didn’t mind... until he absconded with millions of dollars, blueprints, and plenty of sensitive corporate materials. That touched off an ugly war between them still yet to be resolved.

He accused her of using him.

She considered him an ungrateful bastard.

The whole thing sounded like a lover’s spat.

Emma fingered the sore area on her neck and found an unpleasant surprise: the collar. Not a collar, but the collar, the mutant power dampening collar loathed by everyone not fully human. Sheila... she remembered Sheila shooting her, calling out for Betsy, then whimpers.

Sheila, “That bitch,” Emma quietly hissed to herself.

“By ‘that bitch’ would you happen to be referring to your soon to be erstwhile assistant, the lovely and talented Sheila? Probably. You’ll be overjoyed to know there was no Sheila, only my friend Mystique.”

If looks could kill, the Dark Beast would be a pile of smoking flesh.

As it was, he put his furry palm over his chest and swooned. “Such a beautiful face marred by the embodied of hate! Oh, how can a man like me withstand such an assault? I can’t, I can only wither away...”

Emma advanced on her nemesis, but he raised a finger and lost his boyish tones. “Temper, temper, my dear snow cone. That collar of my own design can not only nullify your tremendous psychic powers, but it can also send twenty amps of electricity through your heart on my command.” His grin widened to show plenty of pointy teeth. “That’s about one thousand times the electricity needed to kill an incredibly healthy adult male. If you so much as breathe wrong, I’m going to burst your little ticker and sell your remains to Wendy’s. I hear their chili is finger licking good.”

Betsy... where the hell was Betsy? The blonde remembered calling out over their bond, but did she hear it? With the collar on, Emma couldn’t project or receive thoughts, much less reach for someone who could be thousands of miles away. Betsy could be banging down the door and sending positive vibes over their rapport, but Emma had no way of knowing, just like a freakin’ psi-mute, just like talking on the phone without the speaker working.

No telepathy. No diamond form.

Checkmate.

“What do you want from me, McCoy?”

He clapped like a giddy schoolgirl. “Joy oh joy! About time you realize the hopelessness of your circumstances. Was almost afraid I had to tell you and spoil the surprise!”

Gloating, mocking, laughing--the Dark Beast relished this final victory. The White Queen seethed but could do nothing, and the best part? Doctor Isa Hayes, a living witness to Emma Grace Frost’s destruction.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Everything,” he chuckled. “You’re ruined, my dear, dear Emma. With the political landscape the United States is in, with near global anti-mutant sentiments, you are done for. You can’t hide behind your façade anymore. Your enemies--of which you have many I have no doubt--will look to strike at you, maybe make a quick buck while they’re at it.

“Your underworld ties. Your unkosher business practices. Your mutations. Your alliance with the X-Men. Everything will burst from your diamond mountain like Mount St. Helen’s blowing off its cap. Your clients, your government, your own employees will take you for all you’re worth and you’ll be left with nothing. Hate groups will swarm you. The Hellfire Club will try to eliminate you, cover up its tracks. And your precious X-Men? Well, if all goes according to my employer’s plans, they’ll be dead too.”

Every word coming from those damnable lips resonated arrogant truth, but he still didn’t answer the question. “If I’m ruined, what the hell do you want?”

“Everything,” he repeated as he circled her, “Your body. Your mind. Your soul. Your business. Your fortune. Your life. Your submission. I want everything Emma Grace Frost.”

“You said I’m ruined, genius. Where are you getting my fortune from?”

His burst of movement jolted her. The man went from ten feet away to ten centimeters away. Suddenly, she knew he had a tuna for dinner. “While I may be a genius, I do have my limits. For example, I’m no telepath. The only way I can find out information about you--well, at least the easiest way--is through interrogation. I know nothing of your daily routines, nor do I know the full extent of your contacts. How many bank accounts do you have? What under the table deals are going on? All this stuff, blank, no idea.”

“I’m getting annoyed, McCoy. Do you have a point or are you just boring me to death?”

A sharp nail ran the length of Emma’s chin, but she refused to react. “I’m a genius, my pretty thing. I can engineer a body to look like you and take your place. Then, all the genetic tests in the world will prove you to be human. You’ll be a mutant loving human, but human nonetheless. Your fortune will survive. Your business will survive. Your legacy, however, will be mine.”

A massive paw savagely groped one of her breasts. No response, not even a shiver. “I just need your consent,” he purred as he nuzzled her golden mane. “And I can be very, very persuasive.”

Disgusting saliva coated her neck. She felt him smile on her skin. “Ain't I a little stinker?”

At the very mention of “stinker,” he let go of her. Ideas of freedom degenerated into excruciating pain when the collar sparked and seized her muscles in a burning hold. Emma lost control of her body; she convulsed and screamed, futilely thrashing to stop the suffering. Her heart raced and her lungs wouldn’t expand, producing a singular sensation of drowning without water. Her vision fuzzed out, the cement room deteriorating into a mass of sidewalk gray and light bulb yellow.

Through it all, Emma heard whimpering.

The electrocution simmered down, leaving the blonde to twitch on the ground. A horrible smell overwhelmed her, bringing back memories of the sick games the Hellfire Club played with their prisoners. When she coughed, a plum of white smoke exited.

Well, that might’ve been an exaggeration--she couldn’t see too good at the moment.

Dark Beast drove his knee into the small of her back, grabbed her hair, and pulled. His reward: Emma’s strangled cry.

“That was a small sample of my cute device, just to get the blood flowing. From this moment on, I own you. You’re my voluptuous toy who’s going to make my dreams come true one bit at a time. Got it?”

He beat her, but Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER broke for anybody. “Do your worst, McCoy. You can’t kill me.”

“You’re right, snow cone,” he permitted while rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “That would defeat the purpose of kidnapping and collaring you. I can’t kill you, but I can sure make your life worse than Dante’s Inferno.”

Flipping her around, he snared both her wrists and gazed at her with lust in his eyes. “I haven’t had a good fuck in ages, snow cone, and while you’re a little burnt, any pussy is going to do just fine.”

Emma’s false bravado flagged.

As he salivated at a fevered pitch, his crotch bulged and his breaths became pants. His forceful grip grew downright crushing, her wrists aching like his need. A knee prowled up the inside of her thigh, a portent of things to come. Primal growls loaded the oppressive room. The scent of his arousal almost made her throw up. His weight bore down on her--no escape, no hope, only violation.

The air vent’s grating collapsed and took out the room’s only light source. A bunch of other crashes followed, culminating in McCoy’s roar of anger. The unbearable weight left her sore body.

“The fuck is going on?!”

Betsy’s psychic knife flared to life, illuminating the surroundings in a pinkish hue. Crouched atop the demolished vent, she appeared to be an avenging angel come to carve a swath of destruction through existence itself. Gore covered her sleeves and murder gleamed in her eyes.

She didn’t talk. She didn’t smile. She didn’t show off.

One second she was there, the next she was here, her trademark weapon plunging into the Dark Beast’s skull. He roared again, this time in pain. His mind unhinged and his body languished, fluid, agile movements replaced by jerky, nonsensical motions. Damage done, the psychic knife shrunk away, shadows reclaiming their lost territory.

A strong, comforting arm wrapped around her hips while another cradled her head. In the privacy of darkness, Emma allowed her tears to run free.

“Do you trust me?”

Even the whimpering stopped at that question.

Not trusting her voice, Emma nodded. Somehow Betsy got the message and the comforting arms left her. Unreasonable regret and fear clutched Emma, and by the skin of her teeth did she stop from calling out to her savior.

Shuffling. McCoy’s labored breathing closed in. Emma flinched but calmed herself--she trusted Betsy. A too familiar finger reached up around her neck, pressed against a certain spot on the collar, then retreated. A rush of air brushed against her skin before a smack of flesh on cement reached her ears. Strong arms cradled her again, and this time, a set of slender digits ripped away the damnable collar.

*The collar needed his fingerprint to disengage.”

Telepathy. The warm buzz of other minds. She buried her face in Betsy’s chest, unable to choke back the sobs.

*Easy, Emma. It’s ok now, luv.*

Words couldn’t describe the emotions. Anger, despair, sadness, betrayal, desperation, hopelessness, hurt, nothing encapsulated the stimulus overload of the past few hours. Her dreams torn asunder, her empire waiting to crumble, her vulnerability exposed--one night deconstructed Emma Grace Frost, and she couldn’t handle it. Curling up and dying sounded like a good plan.

The comforting arms held her closer. *You’re stronger than that. I know you are. Get up. We’ve got to go.*

No, no. Couldn’t get up. Couldn’t face the world. Nothing to look forward to. No friends, no family, no company, no life. Way things went, she wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without being pelted by bigots. What did she have? Her students? Students no one in the X-Men truly trusted her with?

*Let me die, Betsy... just let me die...*

She didn’t listen to reason, so Betsy resorted to calming her over their rapport. *You’re being selfish. You can’t give up on life like this. Too many people depend on you--your employees, the X-Men, mutants everywhere.*

*Bullshit! McCoy was right when he said he ruined me! I’m weak! I’m pathetic! I’m nothing now, even to myself! Do you realize how powerless I was? Do you realize how powerless I am? Everything I’ve worked for... gone... I can’t go on. Not like this, not when I’m nothing.*

*You’re something, Emma.*

*You weren’t almost raped by a monstrosity! You didn’t have your life ripped apart! You didn’t have your mutant identity exposed! You weren’t electrocuted within an inch of your life!*

The burst of righteous indignation escaped her, leaving behind resignation.

*It’s pointless to keep fighting. Everything I touch becomes nothing. I tried to fool myself, but the writing is on the wall. The Hellions, Generation X, now Frost Enterprises--nothing. None of it lasts; all of it turns to dust. My existence is cursed, and I can’t stand it anymore. I have nothing to live for...*

*If you won’t live for yourself, then at least live for me.*

Not the time nor the place to say something like that. Hysteria overtook Emma, and you never say two things to hysterical people: “You’re hysterical” and “Surprise! I’ve got an emotional revelation for ya.” Hysterical people couldn’t deal with the thoughts on their own plate and didn’t need more headaches or judgment.

And no matter what Emma would insist years down the line, at this very moment, she was out of her mind hysterical, off her rocker hysterical, heart on the verge of exploding hysterical. Every terrible grief the blonde pushed away came back in full force, first jarred loose by the encounter with the Shadow King and now realized by this very real, very bleak kidnapping by the Dark Beast. She let her pent up emotions go, and the waves of negativity threw themselves against her defenseless self.

*Live for me,* Betsy repeated.

Emma didn’t want to face the world. She wanted to stay here in the darkness. She wanted to stay here in those strong, comforting arms and cry. Now, with those words, those arms didn’t feel as comforting anymore; they became demanding.

A normal person would’ve freaked. A normal person would’ve lashed out. A normal person would’ve been whimpering in a corner of the dark room.

Luckily, Emma wasn’t a normal person. Luckily, she had a strong psychic bond. Just lucky, lucky, lucky, because instead of freaking, Emma got curious.

Hysterical still, but curious. *Why should I live for you?*

*Because I’m your friend and there’s no way I’m going to let Hank’s evil twin break you. Use me, Emma. Everything you can’t handle, give it to me.*

The invitation tempted Emma to no ends, but a bunch of concern made itself known in the form of a simple question: What about Betsy? Here she was, on the verge of suicide and not really caring, but yet she considered one Elisabeth Braddock’s welfare. The old Emma Frost would’ve dumped her despair without a moment’s hesitation, much less permission from the other party. The new Emma Frost would’ve done the same thing; after all, desperate times, desperate measures.

Emma Frost, old or new, didn’t want to use Betsy like this. *No.*

Betsy’s turn for questions, namely, *Why not?*

*What about you?*

Good, that was a good sign: showed Emma’s sanity returning.

*I’ll be fine,* Betsy affirmed.

So why was Emma so worried? Why did she want to protect Betsy at a cost to herself? Where did she find the strength to pull herself out of her mania?

She forced the tears back and stopped the sobs. She needed herself to be honest, and suicidal tendencies, tumultuous thoughts, and escapist’s tactics wouldn’t do. Borrowing from her experiences with Betsy, Emma faced up to herself and scoured for the deep seated reason behind her protectiveness.

Be easy to blame it on their bond.

Be easy to plop it on friendship forged through the aforementioned bond.

Be easy to say camaraderie arisen from this rescue.

All of it fact, but none of it true. Why were Betsy’s arms so comforting? Why did laying here in the darkness feel so right? Why did she cry like no one was around? This went beyond reading each other’s minds, beyond a close friendship, beyond respect garnered from battles.

A smidgen of fear crept into Emma. She’d never felt it before so she couldn’t be sure, but this mutual self-sacrifice, this incredible reassurance, this potent fortitude...

... it sounded a lot like love, or at least, love as it should be.

T.S. Elliot wrote, “Love is most nearly itself when here and now cease to matter.” Here in the nondescript room of an unknown place where sight played no factor, now lost all significance, melted away by an odd serenity from being so close to another.

Emma’s shaky hand fumbled for Betsy’s face. She touched the thin lips, brushed to the side, and slowly went up the cheek. Wetness rolled over her fingers.

“You were crying.”

No condescension. No malice. Just a statement of fact.

“You scared me.”

No falsity. No exaggeration. Just Betsy.

Finally regaining consciousness, the Dark Beast groaned. Along with the groans, whimpering returned. Betsy kissed the back of Emma’s hand.

“I have something to finish,” she said, gently laying the blonde down, “Close your eyes and plug your ears.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not going to be pretty.”

The psychic knife bathed the darkened room in light again. If possible, Isa Hayes shrank even further into himself and quickened his whimpering. McCoy slumped his back against the wall, the area above him showing cracks thanks to Betsy’s vicious throw earlier. He tried to shake the cobwebs loose, but Betsy didn’t let him.

With her free hand, she grasped him by his chest hairs and hoisted him two feet into the air. Tracing the knife around his jaw, Betsy grinned like a feral beast

“Do you know what a flayer is, McCoy?”

Between getting an ass whipping, just regaining his barring, the destruction of his psyche, and the pulling of his chest hairs, Hank’s evil twin couldn’t formulate a valid answer.

Didn’t matter to Betsy though. “Flayers are demons,” she said dispassionately, “They have inky extensions coming out of their bodies and shadows to rip the hide off uncooperative brethren.”

The darkness came to life, tendrils shooting out of Betsy and the surrounding nothingness, all hovering within an inch of McCoy’s face.

“You plotted against the X-Men.”

Some of the demonic appendages wrapped around his neck and wrists.

“You hurt Emma.”

The rest positioned themselves around his eyes.

“You die now.”

She punched the psychic knife into him again, but instead of silence following the blow, sick tearing sounds did. Fluid pitter pattering on cement punctuated howls. A few substantial objects hit the ground, but the howling continued. Crunch went overstressed bone; snap went fragile joints. After an unidentifiable though no less gruesome noise, the howls turned into gurgling. A hit, and something fleshy impacted on the other end of the room. The gurgling stopped. A loud stomp--foot on skull--signaled a finality to the torture.

The whimpering persisted.

Strong arms helped Emma stand. “I thought X-Men didn’t kill,” the blonde whispered.

“Only when Scott and Charles are around.”

The dark humor coaxed a peal of uncomfortable laughter from Emma.

“What are we going to do about Hayes?” asked Betsy.

“No!” the frightened man yelled, “I didn’t... didn’t do anything to any of you! Don... don’t... don’t kill me!”

Betsy sighed. *Don’t judge him too harshly, Emma. I went through the Dark Beast’s mind when I hit him with my psychic knife and Hayes wasn’t involved. McCoy hired Mystique to do the CNN interview. Hayes got captured because McCoy didn’t want the real deal screwing things up--that and he needed a fall guy. Look at him. He can’t even talk right, much less plan anything meaningful.*

“I... I... don’t know why I’m even here!” he desperately insisted. “I don’t wa... wanna die! Please! Don’t do anything to me!”

*Another pawn,* the blonde muttered, *I’m going to have to mind wipe him, maybe do some other things.*

*Whatever you need. Let’s just get out of here before McCoy’s entrails start smelling.*

Betsy briefly left Emma’s side. When she came back, she had the whimpering in tow.

“Both of you, close your eyes and hold my hand.”

“W... w.... why?” asked Isa.

“So you won’t see the remains when we step outside. That and you’re standing on some large intestine. Try not to slip and break your neck.”

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 26

Title: The Problem with the Dead

Chapter 25: The Problem with the Dead

Lorna shot up.

*****************

The night began so well for Charles. Emma finished grading the final projects and turned them in. Most of the X-Men went to Harry’s, leaving the mansion peaceful and relaxing, devoid of its usual (frankly, sometimes grating) mental white noise. Tessa informed him of her closing investigation. To top it all off, Masterpiece Theatre was showing The Lost Prince, something which he’d anticipated for weeks.

He tucked himself further into his bed and put on his glasses. A mug of spiced cider and a batch of fresh Christmas cookies put a festive accent on the evening. With holiday cheers, returning students, and general good will, Charles’ stress almost seemed disappear.

Then all hell broke loose.

During a touching introductory scene, Jean went ballistic, saying something about Scott and Logan being trapped in space. No other explanation came, but Kitty, X’ian, and Rachel left with her. In one fell swoop, six of his X-Men became unreachable.

He was putting on his sweater when an injured Forge reached out to him. A brief image of Rogue and Mystique made it through before their connection fizzled. So he had Rogue, her wildcard mother, and a disabled Forge sitting with Cerebra. Excellent, just the things to cause ulcers.

Calling out to all available X-Men , he furiously wheeled to the elevator in hopes of saving his prized device. Then the mansion shook, rocked by an explosion downstairs. Alarms sounded. Xorn, Polaris, Havok, and Husk could no longer be reached. Nightcrawler gasped in surprise, saying something about others getting wounded and Betsy’s room being blown to bits, maybe Betsy even being dead... again. At least Iceman, Bishop, Storm, and Sage were uninjured.

They converged on Betsy’s second floor, demolished room.

If all this wasn’t enough, when he made it down to the living quarters, Polaris, Esme, Toad, and Magneto (Magneto? Yes, Magneto.), loomed over the scattered remains of the X-Men--Havok and Husk were unmoving as everyone tried to form some kind of resistance. Bishop thundered down the hall firing all his blasters, but a dismissive wave from Lorna had him disarmed.

“Ahh yes, Charles, old friend,” greeted the ring leader, “I was wondering when you’d be joining us.”

Magneto? Magneto couldn’t be here. He was in Genosha laying low. He wouldn’t be doing this. He couldn’t be doing this. Something about this Magneto seemed off, but the infamous helmet prevented the Professor’s scans. Needed help; needed his other X-Men to return but he couldn’t connect to all them. Not enough time, not enough concentration, and not sure if there were still more traitors. Charles sent a truncated mental cry, but suddenly, an object moving too fast to identify whipped around his neck and closed with a click.

His telepathy left him.

They took Bishop first, laid down by Esme’s ever growing psychic powers. Storm retaliated, but the awesome magnetic shields negated her attacks. Caught in her increasing rage, Toad weaved through her lightning bolts and violent gusts to knock her out. They tried to surround a bloodied Kurt to no avail--a puff of smoke and brimstone filled the air in place of the X-Man.

Metal pipes torn from the walls bound the unconscious combatants. Collars floated from Magneto’s outstretched hand and clasped themselves around everyone... everyone except Bobby and Tessa.

The four victors glowered at the two unconquered.

“Any brilliant plans?” Magneto chuckled, “Or are you ready to submit and join our cause?”

Bobby iced up and took a defensive stance. “Fat chance, meatwad. I haven’t even begun to fight!”

Despite the impossible odds and foolhardy declaration, Bobby’s perseverance brought a smile to Charles. A part of the old man beamed for instilling such confidence in one of his first pupils. Another part of him cried because the four here seemed to have no qualms about deadly force.

“Do not be stupid, Robert,” said Tessa as she removed her sunglasses, “We are outmaneuvered with no means of escape. Our only choice is surrender.”

Magneto nodded appreciatively at Tessa. “A wise woman--no wonder they call you Sage. My new regime will need ones such as you.”

“No way, Tessa! This is big bad! This is Magneto! I don’t know what he’s done to Lorna and what he plans to do with everyone else, but I’m not going to take this lying down!”

“When there is life, there is a way,” she replied. “If you persist with your inane attitude, you will die. What use to the world will you be then?”

The two stared long and hard at each other, a silent battle of wills raging; however, the outcome was never in doubt. Bobby looked away first, his shoulders slumping like Xavier’s night.

“This is the only way, Robert.”

“I know,” he sighed, “But I don’t have to like this.”

Lorna blew a kiss at Bobby. “You’ll love it. Papa’s going to have the world on a string and we’ll get to play with it!”

“What’s wrong with you, Lorna? You damn near took Alex’s head off. What’s Magneto done to you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Papa came back, and he’s doing things none of you had the courage to do: make the world a better place. So, can you shut up now? Bringing a new dawn of existence takes time and we’re on a tight schedule.”

“Enough,” bellowed Magneto. He summoned his powers and surrounded everyone in a magnetic field. “Show a measure of your loyalty and make yourself useful, Iceman. Restrain each X-Man with your mutant powers.”

“What?!”

Sage pushed him forward. “Do it, Robert.” Her voice lowered so only he could hear. “If not to spare their lives, then at least to spare ours.”

Put that way, Bobby went about his grim task, though he did so joylessly. He saved the Professor for last, mouthing a silent “I’m sorry” before ice raced around his body.

Lifting into the air, Magneto demolished most of the mansion on his way out. He was a happy, happy man--not many times one felled his greatest enemies, gutted their base, claimed their own, held said enemies as trophies, and looked forward to world domination all in a night’s work. Yes, Magneto was very happy, so that made Lorna and Toad happy. Esme pretended to be happy to fit in. Honestly, she had concerns about her sisters.

Bobby frowned.

Tessa smiled and put back on her sunglasses, data immediately filtering across her vision.

And Charles?

All in all, Charles Xavier was having a pretty bad night. He didn’t even get to finish Masterpiece Theatre.

*****************

A tiny speaker droned, “You’ve got mail.”

Dane Whitman opened the message and smiled.

It read, “The portal is in Battery Park.”

*********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 27

Title: Teacher's Edition

Chapter 26: Teacher’s Edition

What a marvel these new Mark 3 planes. From insane acceleration to outer space travel, this vehicle did it all, and comfortably too--made riding in a limo seem like going four-wheeling in a Pinto. If she weren’t half-drunk and speeding to rescue her friends, Kitty would’ve enjoyed the trip.

“How did Scott and Logan get into space?”

The only other occupant in the plane, Jean, peeked at her while fiddling with instruments. “Sense I got before Scott blacked out was Fantomex tricked them. That’s why Rachel and X’ian are intercepting him in the other Mark 3.”

Scott and Jean... always in the eye of the X-Men storm, weren’t they? Through life and death they managed to stick together. For any other couple, sudden black outs were rare emergencies. For this couple, desperate last gasps just inches from doom were common place.

“How do you deal with everything?”

“Practice,” the red head answered. “Hold tight, we’re coming in to their location.”

Practice? “So the wonders of taking your husband’s possible death in stride is practice?”

“Practice,” she nodded sagely.

“How do you even get used to it? Doesn’t it just tear you apart?”

“It does, but life goes on. I take each moment as it comes, the joy, the sadness, and I deal with it the best I can.”

That’s it? “You make it sound so simple.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but it isn’t. Trust me, the line of thought sounds much simpler then you’ve been one with the cosmos. Oh, and Kitty?”

“Yeah?”

“Suit up. We’re going into a vacuum.”

The Mark 3 hurled toward a large, jagged space station on the verge of collapse. Debris bobbled about, bad things just waiting to happen. Stars shined majestically and the blue earth elicited visual pleasure; the decaying space station served as a counterpoint to the awesome sights. And in a sense, the station was awesome in and of itself. Incredible engineering, the utmost of luck, and the right conditions had to happen for that thing not fall apart in an instant.

Like an expert, Jean docked with the mass of junk.

“You’re so calm, Jean. Every battle, every dangerous situation, my hands still shake and I still get nervous.”

The red head smiled as she zipped up her space suit. “Just like Logan, though he hides it well.”

“But he never-”

“Some things people never get over, Kitty. Acknowledge it and move on--don’t dwell on it. Time doesn’t go in reverse.”

Kitty sighed. “This is advice about Peter and Illyana, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s general advice that can be applied to many life experiences.”

Further conversation ceased when the Mark 3’s hatch opened. For a breached area, the docking pads held well, even going so far as to house an undamaged escape pod. Sensing her husband close by, Jean used her telekinesis to pull herself and Kitty further into the station.

Sleek metal gave way to drab rock. No wonder the place didn’t completely fall apart: it was built into an asteroid. Another couple hundred feet and two bulkheads later, the station even seemed in good shape--no breaches and little structural damage cropped up. Life support activated here, and if they so inclined, the two X-Women could’ve taken off their space suits.

Not that either wanted to chance it.

Gravity returned after passing through another bulkhead.

“Weird,” noted Kitty, “It’s like someone else made this part of the station.”

A lump of person rested unmoving up ahead. “Scott,” Jean breathed, hurrying to his side.

He didn’t look good: broken nose, two gunshot to the left arm, and probably a laundry list of other injuries. No amount of shaking or alarms sounding affected him, but he still breathed and his pulse remained strong. Jean tore her own space suit off and started outfitting her husband.

“Take Scott back to the Mark 3,” Jean ordered while she worked, “Get him into the medlabs as soon as you can.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to look for Logan.”

“I’m talking about walking naked into space.”

“I’ll form a telekinetic shield around myself and head into the escape pod when I find Logan. If Scott doesn’t have a suit on, I can only assume he doesn’t either.”

Thinking better of arguing, Kitty nodded and hefted Scott onto her shoulders. What a bother. Seemed like she’d been hauling unconscious X-Men around all week. “Are you sure you’ll be ok by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jean smiled, “I know Scott is in good hands and I know Logan is still alive. It’s the most we can ask for in this catastrophe.”

Wasting no time, the red head ran down the corridor. Just the definition of a soldier, wasn’t she? Took everything in stride and continued on. Never left a comrade behind. Personal feelings came in a distant second to The Dream. Jean was one of Charles’ first students and, as years of hard fought living attested to, his finest. Strong, tough, resilient, relentless--Kitty aspired to be Jean, worked half her life trying to emulate her behavior, and yet she failed.

One look at an injured Scott explained why: Kitty couldn’t put those personal feelings behind The Dream. Fighting for peace on earth wasn’t easy, and it became that much harder when loved ones fought--and died--by her side. The cynic in her scoffed. As long as people were different, peace could never be attained. To work toward a greater good didn’t bother her; to work toward a greater good and lose the reasons for fighting did.

Selfish? Yes, she was selfish, but after so much strife, she deserved peace. This... this superhero way... this was no way to live.

Kitty recalled Jean’s words: “Some things people never get over.”

She got over the physical toll of becoming an X-Man. She got over the moral dilemmas coloring every mission. She got over never receiving an ounce of accolades for saving innumerable lives. She got over never being Jean.

She couldn’t get over seeing her friends hurt, suffer, and die.

Then why was she here? Because if she didn’t act, her friends would still hurt, suffer, and die. Logan pointed that fact out as clear as day: just a vicious, inescapable cycle. No light loomed at the end of this tunnel.

Kitty sighed and prepared to make the tough journey back into the Mark 3. Suddenly, going back to Chicago and curling up in bed didn’t seem like a bad idea. Shit still happened but at least she didn’t have to see or deal with it.

*****************

After stealing Forge’s vast knowledge, she worked in silence. Even with his mutant ability and ungodly intelligence, Cerebra remained an enigma. Oh, she could fix it, get it running again, but some of the innermost workings still baffled her. A machine reacting to and modifying psychic energies through nothing but wires, electricity, and a load of software? Far out.

However, observations could wait: Remy couldn’t. Knowing this, Rogue pushed herself, tweaking circuit boards and ironing out software conflicts. This stopgap style repair job wouldn’t fix the issues Forge was working on, but at least Cerebra would work. As she delved further and further into her task, she experienced what had to be known as an inventor’s high. Hey, they had a runner’s high, so why not an inventor’s high? The way she clicked on all cylinders, the way everything came together, the way she once-overed stuff and got it to work, this feeling had to be an inventor’s high.

Grooving now, Rogue got a chance to take stock of a still woozy, still scowling Mystique, though thankfully the scowl wasn’t directed at her. Funny how the woman could be so tender, vulnerable, and sinister all at once. Hard to believe the parent who kissed away her childhood boo-boos was the same villain who caused her so much grief in adulthood.

Rogue used to think she had an inside track to Mystique’s head, but no longer. Mystique was a chameleon. Mystique was also her mama.

Entire body tucked underneath a control panel, the brunette decided to break her silence. “Why ya helpin’ me?”

Mystique flinched, the words stinging more than the wound. She forced her voice to remain even. “Because you’re my daughter.”

“Didn’t seem ta matter fo’ years.”

Rebooting one’s genetic template for healing purposes took energy and effort, and if Mystique any left, she would’ve given Rogue a good piece of her mind. Since she had neither, she tried something she hadn’t done in ages: be honest.

“It was for your own good, Rogue.”

“Like ah haven’t heard that b’fore,” she mumbled.

“You think that’s not true?”

“Ah know it ain’t,” she said, closing the panel door with bang. Cerebra began its long rebooting process. “Turnin’ ‘way from me when ah joined the X-Men hurt. Playin’ yo mind games with ma life made me wondah if you still loved me. Lotta stuff you said, lotta things you did, they hurt, Mystique. How can ya even say it’s for ma own good?”

Hurt. Yeah, those acts hurt, and the hurt cut both ways. “Would you have gone to the X-Men if I’d been kinder?”

Rogue rolled out from the machinery and frowned. “’Course not! You n’ Irene treated me good till ma powers came, then y’all started usin’ me like a pair o’ washed out jeans. Ah had ta turn to the X-Men, n’ back then, it sure as hell wasn’t by choice. What? Ya think ah liked Logan tryin’ ta take ma head off every chance he got?”

“If I treated you well, you would’ve stayed?”

“Yeah!”

“Then you would’ve died.”

They stared at each other, Mystique dead serious (and dead tired) and Rogue clueless. “Whatcha sayin’, Mama?”

“Irene and I couldn’t control your mutant powers. Not only were you dangerous to us, you were dangerous to yourself. If we kept you at home, you wouldn’t have led any kind of life worth mentioning. Probably would’ve gone in depression if we locked you up; probably would’ve gotten found out by the wrong people if we left you alone. What could we do? There was no way I’d put you in a government sponsored, mutant death camp and leave your fate to a handful of fucking humans. Irene didn’t want you caught up in our dealings with the Brotherhood. The X-Men were the only choice we felt comfortable with, not because we liked them, but because they would treat you the best.”

“So ya make ma life miserable so ah’d run away?!”

“Don’t you get it, Rogue? We couldn’t train you. If you absorbed too many people at such a young age, you would’ve destroyed your mind if not flat out died. Xavier, for all his inane rhetoric, taught you control and gave you experience to hone your abilities.”

“Then why didn’t ya just tell me to come here?”

Now fully in parent mode, Mystique placed her yellow eyes squarely on her daughter. “Remember how stubborn you were? If we dropped you off here, you would’ve been home in two minutes. Also remember how none of us were on good terms with the X-Men? You think old man Xaiver would’ve let you into his precious school if I enrolled you?”

“But the Professor’s ‘bout helpin’ mutants-”

“No, Rogue. Your Professor is about helping his own cause. He wants his coexistence and he’ll stop at nothing to get it regardless of human and mutant sacrifices. You know he’s shadier than he lets on--the X-Men isn’t his only weapon to further his goals.”

The dawn of understanding settled in to Rogue’s head. She slowly sucked in a breath. “So all this time...”

“I didn’t enjoy what I had to do to you. I didn’t enjoy putting you with the X-Men. If I had my way, I’d hide you from this mutant-human war and never let you go, but then I’d be selfish. Irene and I stayed up many nights figuring out how to give you the best life we could. Sacrifices were made, I had to alienate myself from you, but I’d do it all over again because this was the only way. THIS is the only future I’ll accept and the only one we’ve been working toward for two decades.”

“And what’s this future?”

A pad of skin on Mystique’s thigh receded to reveal a small, thin book. “Remember Irene’s diaries you fought over?”

“Yes...”

She peeled the object out of her body and held it up. “Consider this the teacher’s edition.”

A mechanical, female voice broke in. “Cerebra reboot completed. System diagnostics, 78% functionality. Awaiting command.”

********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 28

Title: The Loneliest Number

Chapter 27: The Loneliest Number

They dropped Isa off a mile outside Chicago: Emma did the mind wiping and Betsy didn’t ask. Each woman returned to their respective mental corners like weary boxers and wrapped the flight back to Westchester in stillness. By taciturn agreement, they kept away from the other and allowed the night’s horrid events to be processed. Betsy thought Emma mulled her company’s options. Emma thought Betsy wrestled with her conscience over killing. If they spent more time communicating than postulating, they would’ve noticed they were so very wrong.

Betsy had no qualms about killing the Dark Beast in a most gruesome, torturous fashion. The ogre made Hank’s life a living nightmare, and a violent dismantling was a long time coming for the evil imposter. Wasn’t this the least she could do for Hank after she did her best to avoid him all week? Of course, Betsy didn’t kill the fake McCoy just for Hank. In fact, if pressed on the issue, Betsy would’ve said Hank didn’t fit into the equation as much as Emma did. From the moment she burst out of her room, the drive to tear the face off of the person or people who hurt Emma stuck itself inside her head and wouldn’t be denied. So instead of evaluating her conscience, which stayed strangely silent and had no problems with her acts, she spent a vast amount of time on one thought which sifted through their bond during the rescue.

Love.

After Betsy took off McCoy’s collar on, Emma couldn’t shield her mind well. The blonde’s train of thought about strength, support, comfort, and love tumbled into Betsy. At the time, Emma’s feelings overwhelmed her, made her joyous beyond belief, but now, she wasn’t so sure. Lust or love--the difference between these words took on an added significance for Betsy.

Lusting for Emma’s body was one thing; loving Emma was another. Could love exist after only a handful of days? They’d experienced a great deal together, but was their attraction built on desperate times? In the heat of the moment, emotions burned like wildfire and little of it could be saved. When the fires extinguished themselves, would these feelings still persist or would they turn to ash? How many ill-fated romances had various X-Men found themselves in? How often had the passion of battle turned into short-lived physical passion? How much damage had these flings done? For Emma’s sake, Betsy needed to be sure of these feelings.

And that’s when Betsy became sure of these feelings. Her turmoil centered not on her own satisfaction, but rather Emma’s. Instead of selfish pleasure, she focused on selfless care and the betterment of another. Though this altruistic mindset ruled out pure lust, the issue of love still remained. Was this love of the friendship kind, tinted by a less than platonic lure? Was this love of the romantic kind, untainted by other impulses?

While Betsy examined the anatomy of love, Emma fixated herself on another creature: bitter rejection. Why? Because she was pathetic. Armed with her psychic powers and Betsy’s martial arts, one of her worst enemies still outmaneuvered and collared her: embarrassing for sure, but also incredibly pathetic. God, then the whole thing about loving Betsy pushed her over the edge. What kind of stupid romantic was she, going all glassy-eyed and swoon-prone when Betsy came flying to her rescue like a knight in shining armor? Emma Grace Frost never swooned, never ogled at women, and never needed anyone else...

Which was kind of paradoxical considering those sly glances she snuck at her companion. So Betsy had a runway model’s body. So she had that sexy British accent. So she had those chocolaty brown eyes. So she had an aura of sensuality. Big whoop, not like Emma hadn’t seen of it before.

Then why was she peeking?

Fine, the unique combination of body, mind, and soul which made up Betsy drew Emma’s attention, not like any of it was news. Her attraction made itself known that fateful night in the medlab. Through and through, Emma considered Elisabeth Braddock to be beautiful--difficult and headstrong, but beautiful nonetheless. Strong, dogged, persistent, passionate, considerate, independent, all the positive things Emma associated with a good person Betsy personified.

How could such beauty ever consider loving her? Never.

Wanting her body? Maybe, but never love. No one could love Emma Grace Frost.

See, Emma didn’t like herself much, in particular the White Queen persona she’d spent years hiding behind. Come on, no one liked a self-assured bitch with an inflated ego and icy demeanor. The abrasive, manipulative character reminded her of that spiteful patriarch she called a father. Yet, circumstances forced the White Queen image to engulf Emma, and after so many years, White Queen and Emma became one in the same. Every effort she’d ever made to better herself or break from the temperament met the same slow, horrible demise. Eventually, Emma just reveled in being what she hated, what she swore to herself she wouldn’t become: a judgmental subversive like her father.

Now then, she’d established herself to be a voyeuristic, pathetic, judgmental subversive. What part of that could anyone ever love? Betsy understood her, made a concerted effort to be there for her, but that sudden pulse of love Emma experienced couldn’t possibly be returned. Her downright hostile mannerisms, her overly guarded mind, and her overall attitude kept the world at arm’s length.

Less pain that way. Less joy too.

Keeping everything and everyone at arm’s length was Emma’s number one rule, and Emma only hurt when she broke said rule. Try looking at her attachment to her students and her company for examples. But, in the past few days, she’d been more intimate with Betsy than she had with anything else in her life. The closeness refreshed her, but disappointment loomed in the background. How could Betsy stand associating with a falsity like her? Well, she did, but what were the chances of love developing considering how much they pushed each other’s buttons? Did Emma want to be in love and open a new vulnerability, one which would wretch her heart out if it was exploited?

No, this ended now, for both their sakes.

“Elisabeth, I need to apologize.”

The soulful brown eyes locked in on and Emma went under its spell. “Why?”

With one innocent word, Betsy sent shivers up the blonde’s spine and rained blows against her resolve. “Because I was out of line,” replied Emma.

As she tapped lightly against their psychic rapport, puzzlement and worry descended over those drowning eyes. “You’re tense, Emma. Did McCoy do something else to you?”

“No,” the blonde replied, cursing her weakened state, “I wanted to apologize about my... my...” Damn, she couldn’t say it, couldn’t give a form to her neediness.

Betsy waited patiently, never demanding but never wavering. Compassion, understanding--the White Queen dealt with harsh, unforgiving reality, not these fairy tale qualities. Emma sighed and sank into her flight chair, frustrated at herself, Betsy, and this whole affair. Why did life throw these morsels of hope at her when it was just waiting to take them away? Why did the world tempt her with joy when it knew everything she touched withered away?

Betsy was just another crushing opening for another enemy. She might’ve been enamored with Emma, but the infatuation couldn’t last. Each had their own lives, their own personalities, and their own problems to deal with that anything but a cordial friendship couldn’t and shouldn’t be sustained. They couldn’t be good for each other; at least, Emma was certain she couldn’t be good for Betsy. If nothing else, Betsy mattered, Betsy was beautiful, and Emma didn’t want to hurt Betsy.

“Emma?”

“What?”

“Can I say something?”

Didn’t trust the care in her voice. Didn’t trust the words threatening to make themselves known. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“And what am I getting into?”

Goaded by the words, Emma glared at Betsy. “I know you sensed my pitiful tirade on love. I recognize that inflection in your voice. You want to talk about it, reassure me everything’s fine and that the feeling is mutual. It’s what you do best, isn’t it? Talk? All you want to do is talk, and guess what? I don’t want to. It’s pointless garbage, water under the bridge.”

“Fair enough,” said Betsy, “What do you want then?”

Good question, one that became more relevant by the second--for all of Emma’s work, for all of her guardedness, what did she hope to accomplish? Quite sobering to imagine one’s life without a goal or meaning. Her hesitation already answered Betsy, but she voiced the response anyway.

“I don’t know.”

Betsy’s stare took on a fiery intensity. “I know what I want. I want to be me, Elisabeth Braddock, not Psylocke, not X-Man, not mutant, not model, not Brian’s twin, not Braddock child, not Hand assassin, not Captain Britain’s go-for. I want to be free from the many roles I’ve been given since birth. It’s hard because everyone expects something from me and doesn’t understand the person underneath their expectations. Been that way so long, I’m not sure I even remember what being myself is like, but when I’m around you, Emma, I remember.

“You understand the frustration of living an act and how much you just need to be free. Think acting the way you do will make everyone go away, but it doesn’t happen. More people bother you, more expectations come your way.”

The emptiness in Emma’s chest throbbed, memories of past wounds seizing her body, the weight crushing the air from her lungs. Those eyes... she couldn’t look away from those smoldering eyes. “Are you talking about me or you, Elisabeth?”

“Both of us,” she softly murmured, clasping her hands around Emma’s, “You understand but don’t judge. You see the world like I do. When I’m around you, I can say my innermost thoughts and act as contradictory as I want because there is no point in lying to you. You give me confidence in myself and you demand I be true. When I’m not around you, my mind keeps returning to you, wondering how you are, connecting things to all that is you.”

Betsy breathed and steeled herself. “You free me, Emma. You’ve trapped me, but when I’m with you, I’m freer than I’ve ever been because you drag me out of my false selves. Is that love? Maybe, maybe not, but whatever it is, I don’t want to lose it.”

She paused a beat. “I know what I want. I want you, Emma.”

A million ways to respond went through Emma’s mind. Her first impulse? Pull away and dash Betsy’s affections. No, couldn’t hurt Betsy so had to let her down slow. Consequently, a well-thought out treatise on the difficulties of an X-Men tinged lesbian relationship unfurled itself. Logic, yes, logic never hurt anyone. To remove the extraneous emotion she could even assume her diamond form. But why be logical when Betsy was being so... so... emotional? Had to match her emotions; another argument would do the trick. A nasty verbal joust could quell all positive feelings and drive Betsy away like a kicked dog. These responses and more wove through Emma’s mind, but most of them hurt Betsy, and Emma didn’t want to hurt Betsy.

She settled on her most primal response.

Exploding from her seat, Emma captured Betsy’s gorgeous lips with her own. Velvety smoothness overwhelmed the sensitive skin, and like a drug, Emma yearned for more. Her tongue wanted in on the action and begged Betsy to let out its playmate, which she did. The two wet, nimble extensions introduced themselves, brushing and twisting and tangling around like dance partners. Their bodies slide into each other, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Hands roamed, each instinctively knowing where to caress to coax forth the sparks of arousal.

Betsy had a weakness on her left side a few inches below the ribs.

Emma loved it when someone played with her hair just right.

Betsy shuddered, a fleeting finger stroked her earlobe.

Emma moaned, a foot gently grazing the inside of her calf.

Every nerve lit ablaze; every touch excited them. An unquenchable thirst arose in them, their closeness dulled only by their clothes. They needed more of each other, but they couldn’t let go long enough to take off their garments. The mental distance they kept from each other disappeared and the thoughts they entertained earlier tumbled out like two crates of legos, not that they cared now. Bond reopened, their arousal fed back in a loop, Emma feeling what Betsy felt and vice versa. They rode each other’s pleasure, each touch, each caress, each gasp felt two fold--it was like nothing they’d ever experienced.

They strained to take in more.

Not a millimeter of space separated their bodies

They shared one mind.

They melted into one form.

Neither could tell where the other began or ended, and for a beautiful moment, they were free, free to enjoy being themselves and free to let their thoughts roam wherever they pleased. The world’s troubles faded away, replaced by a numbing fulfillment that couldn’t be dutifully described. From head to toe Emma tingled with life; for a split second, Betsy swore her unbeating heart started again. A kaleidoscope of colors and emotions twirled into their visions and minds, and then, like all good things, receded.

They returned to themselves. Emma, still on top, opened her eyes first and watched as a euphoric Betsy--lips slightly parted and face angelic--sighed in satisfaction. The blonde traced a finger around the features, eventually making Betsy’s eyes flutter and open half-lidded.

“Beautiful,” Emma whispered.

“The view from down is nice too.”

“I’m sure it is.”

When the finger ran over Betsy’s lips, she kissed it before putting on a sad smile. After all, they had unfinished business. “Do you still want to push me away?”

But this felt so good, too good, so good Emma choked. Whatever the case, she owed Betsy the truth. “Yes.”

“Is it because of me?”

“No, it’s because of where the existence of ‘us’ might lead.”

“What’s life without a hint of danger?”

Emma Grace Frost never cried, but the powerful businesswoman in stiletto boots wasn’t in: only Emma remained, the grown up girl who decided to be better than everyone because she wasn’t good enough for anyone, the vulnerable woman who wanted to be loved but was too scarred to be rejected again. Tears rolled down the blonde’s face, buried hopes and dreams exhuming themselves. Accepting would be easy and uplifting, but the negative consequences crushing. For all her thickened skin, Emma couldn’t take another disappointment, much less Betsy’s disappointment as well.

“I could hurt you.”

“More than spitting on my emotions, crushing them, and having to be around you every day because I can’t leave you alone? More than watching you, wanting you, and never having you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Don’t joke about it, Betsy. The repercussions are very real.”

“So are the rewards.”

“Be logical

“I am,” said Betsy, sitting up to get herself even closer to Emma, “I’m bonded to a like minded woman who has walked through as much adversity as myself. Out of genuine respect and fondness, we look out for each other to the detriment of ourselves. I just experienced the most intense feelings of my life when only our lips touched. Why in God’s name would I let her go?”

“Because I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

“No, you’re a perfectionist. Your standards are so high you can’t always meet them.”

“My students-”

“Many are still alive thanks to your training. Look at Paige, Jubilee, Monet, and Jono--they wouldn’t be here without you.”

“My company-”

“It’s not gone yet. McCoy might’ve outed you, but it’s not the end of the world, not yet. Too many depend on Frost Enterprises just to see it drown. You’ll find help and pull through.”

“This coming from a precognitive?”

“No, this coming from someone who believes in you and gives you the credit you don’t give yourself. You’re not a voyeuristic, pathetic, judgmental subversive. You’re the strongest person I know, and trust me when I say no one could live your life and still end up as unbelievable as you are.”

Emma kissed Betsy. It wasn’t needy like last time, but the gesture remained as deep, meaningful, and emotional as its predecessor. It still left them breathless when they broke away.

The iciness in Emma’s eyes warmed. “You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“I had time to think things over,” admitted Betsy. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

A wicked grin made it onto the blonde’s face. “Do you remember some of the first words I said to you when you came back?”

Betsy raised her brows and shook her head.

The grin widened. “I’m more than you can handle, darling.”

“We’ll see about that.”

On the verge of joining the mile high club, an abrupt mental shriek pulled both women off of each other. “The Professor,” gasped Betsy.

Emma frowned, the moment shattered by one bald headed man. “I only sensed a nonsensical blurb, not that Xavier makes sense to begin with.”

“He said he needs help. Something about traitors.”

“Traitors?” the blonde asked, “A lot of good that does us. Did he say who?”

Wouldn’t you know it, just as the Blackbird cut across the Upper New York Bay, one of the engines exploded and sent the plane into a graveyard spiral. Metal bent and tore from the sudden downward force. Halfway through the unplanned trip, glass shattered and ripped the inner cabin with unrelenting winds.

Emma turned to diamond and covered Betsy.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 29

Title: Toil and Trouble

Chapter 28: Toil and Trouble

“It’s not here, Stephen. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Eyes darkening, Doctor Strange scratched his chin. “And you’re sure the only people who came through Limbo were us?”

Amanda held up eight fingers. “Brian, Meggan, Dane, Betsy, Illyana, Kitty, Emma, and you. Not missing anyone, I’m sure.”

“Then we must assume the worst: one of us took the pendant.”

Not a moment later, two of the aforementioned suspects--Brian and Meggan--teleported into Amanda’s stronghold, both winded and worried.

“Something’s wrong with Betsy,” breathed Brian.

Of course, assumptions were made.

*****************

The bulkhead finally creaked open halfway and allowed Jean to step through. Logan, outfit in tatters and claws unsheathed, stood before a large screen, warnings and alerts covering its every inch. His muscles tensed.

“Get outta here, Jeanie.”

“Logan, you can’t stay here. The station’s unstable.”

“I told ya,” he growled, slashing at the display, “GET OUT!”

“Why?!”

He motioned all around him to the computers, the rock, the metal floors. “It’s a trap,” he sighed, defeated, “n’ we just flamin’ walked into it.”

“Fantomex tricked you and Scott, I kno-”

“No, Jeanie,” he interrupted, “Look ‘round you. Don’t this place look familiar?”

“A little. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

The claws retracted and the screen sparked. “It’s Asteroid M.”

Two explosions, one close to their position and another of the mental persuasion, engulfed them. Jean clutched her head, mind ringing from the Professor’s cries. The bulkhead behind her wiggled loose and fell. Logan rushed in to save Jean, propping up the slab of metal with his slight but strong frame.

Another explosion, this one coming from the computer Logan unleashed his fury on. As the station lost its integrity, life support systems shut down. A blast of telekinesis threw Logan’s burden to the side, but before the two regrouped, a breach in the asteroid rock caused emergency bulkheads to slide down and seal all the areas.

Seconds later, the power went out.

*****************

Remy didn’t like this, no way, not one bit. His Spanish escapades painted Vargas as one tough, linear-minded hombre. Getting in his sights was like standing in front of a bullet train--the matter wasn’t if you’d die, it’s how much dying would hurt.

And right now, dying seemed to be a most painful venture.

Vargas swung his massive sword down again, and by the skin of his teeth, Remy rolled out of the way. The madman didn’t mind fighting on a busy Bourbon Street in the middle of the night crowds. Crazy dude also didn’t mind taking out innocent bystanders who got too close to the action. Those idiots were still figuring out that this wasn’t filming for a new movie, and while Remy didn’t want to see innocents killed, he didn’t have the breath to warn the dumber breed of said innocents either.

Vicious attacks, like the one coming for his neck, precluded talking.

He flipped backwards; a lamppost came tumbling down after him, smacking him in the wrist as he gathered himself. His staff popped out of his hands and went end over end into the masses. Great. He had no idea where Bella Donna went to and sincerely hoped she wasn’t dead. People crowded him on all sides, most screaming, some actually in fear. Vargas looked to be toying with him. Now, his favorite staff was gone.

“From bad to worse, non?” he mumbled to himself.

But this was still Nawlins, his hometown, his turf: losing here wasn’t an option. Remy backed away and charged a card, fully knowing it did no good. The brick house of a man withstood even his most powerful kinetic attacks, avoiding the projectiles or shrugging them off like mosquito bites. Strong like Colossus, nimble like Wolverine, and merciless like Apocalypse this one--what in hell was he?

Remy bumped into a wall. From the way it vibrated, the place was probably a club or bar, which meant a big wall, which meant little room to maneuver, which meant certain doom. Vargas smiled and wiped the rivulets of blood from his sword.

“Any last words, mutant?”

Couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Wouldn’t let him see the fear. Remy’s red eyes narrowed as he fished into his pocket and produced an entire deck of cards. The close impact of the explosion would certainly kill Remy himself and at least give Vargas a bad day. Desperate? Maybe, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Vargas just laughed. “Do you really think your cards will even harm me?”

“We see ‘bout dat.”

Before he charged another fifty two cards, Vargas’ body locked up and his eyes stopped moving. The sudden freeze caught Remy off guard, but he didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He broke out into a dead sprint, barging through the onlookers and doing his best to put as much distance between him and Vargas.

Rogue’s unexpected voice echoed in his head. *Sugah, y’ok?*

Now, Remy LeBeau wasn’t a religious man, but he glanced into the sky and made the sign of the cross. *Chere, Remy don’t care whatcha did, but he’d wanna kiss you real good ‘bout now.*

*Ah can’t hold him fo’ long. Cerebra ain’t made ta do stuff like this, so ya betta git, and git fast.*

*Way ahead of you, Roguey.*

He turned sharply off into a less traversed section of the French Quarter. Women of the night and shady businessmen mingled as one under ancient buildings and seedy bars. The old outlaw spirit remained strong here, and through it, so remained the Guild’s power. Those in the know dipped their heads to him; those not knew a dangerous man when they saw one and left him be. Remy came here for one man, and he hoped that one man wasn’t somewhere else.

Picking his teeth, Quiet Bill savored the leftovers from his meager dinner. With no cares on his mind and a beer in his hand, the world seemed like a wonderful place. What could possibly go wrong in Nawlins, especially for a bum? Peaceful place this town, much more peaceful many other cities he’d been to. Warm clothes on his back, no rain in the sky, beautiful women on the street--perfect, until Remy LeBeau came streaking around the corner.

“Mon ami,” the man in the trench coat puffed, “Dis be serious business. Remy gotta go back to de landin’ up north.”

Again? Bill rubbed his stubby chin and held out his hand.

He might’ve been harried, but Remy knew the universal sign for “Pay up” like none other. “Be kiddin’ me, mon ami.” He patted himself down to show his current state of pennilessness. “Don’t got nothin’ dis moment.”

Arms folded, Bill stared off into space, or namely, everywhere Remy wasn’t. The Cajun took a hint and lifted a wallet from a passerby--twenty bucks and a library card. Didn’t take Quiet Bill for the reading type, so, from another unfortunate denizen, he pilfered a watch... a Casio watch. Of all the dumb luck tonight.

“Uhh, how far a Casio and twenty bucks get me?”

A dirty mitt snatched the goods and Quiet Bill got to work, opening a familiar portal.

“I owe you, mon ami,” Remy exhaled in relief.

Bill just urged him on, silently saying “Keeping this portal open ain’t easy, you know.” So Remy stepped through, fully expecting to come out behind a bunch of rocks in the North Cove of Manhattan. That’s what they called “the landin’ up north”--far enough from X-Men territory, easy to access, and secluded in the right parts. What he got wasn’t the landing but rather a mouthful of water courtesy of the Hudson River.

The landing, meanwhile, mocked him from about a hundred feet away.

“Oh, dat be harsh,” Remy coughed.

Soaking wet, freezing, and tired, he hauled himself back onto shore. Some people glanced at him but kept moving, unsure what to make of this man. Wringing the water out of his sleeves, Remy couldn’t care less about the icy reception. Next he see Quiet Bill, there’d be hell to pay.

*Roguey, you still dere?*

*Ah’m comin’ ta pick you up. Somethin’ just went down at the mansion n’ Magneto’s out on the loose.*

Sheesh. No rest for the wicked. *Magneto? Ain’t he dead yet?*

*If dead men can tear the roof off the mansion, then sure, he’s dead. Just stay though, ah come get ya first.*

*Thanks Roguey. Love ya.*

*Ain’t outta the woods yet, Remy.*

And she cut off, presumably shifting powers again to accomplish her new task. Man, now he had to wait in the New York winter while drenched and sore. He had his bike parked here, but having the wind nip him at sixty miles an hour felt miserable even in thought.

Yup, stuck in the middle of Manhattan shivering and with no way to warm up. How could his night possibly get any worse?

Well, as luck would have it, in the southern sky, a flash of fire lit up the New York Bay, and an awfully familiar plane dove from the furthest reaches of the clouds and toward the chilly water Remy so enjoyed a moment ago. The few cars on the street stopped, visions of 9/11 rekindled in many New Yorkers’ minds.

Closer the vessel drew and the sinking feeling in Remy’s stomach amplified. The Blackbird, that thing was the Blackbird, and it looked to be in a bad way, broken up, wingless, and on fire. Who was in the plane? Which nefarious villain committed the act?

No time to ponder now. Remy shrugged off his soggy trench and made a beeline for his motorcycle. Ok, so this was how things could get worse.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 30

Title: Consequences

Chapter 29: Consequences

“You shouldn’t be strainin’ yourself, elf boy.”

Very true--with a crushed forearm and multiple cuts, Kurt Wagner shouldn’t have been up, let alone rounding up a ragtag company of young adult mutants still in shock over the mansion’s destruction. If not for Jubilation Lee and Sam Guthrie, the man known as Nightcrawler would’ve spent the rest of the evening in an unwilling torpor out in the backyard hedges. He didn’t ask how they found him, but he gave them his thanks before soldering on.

Why? Well, for all anyone knew, Kurt was the last of the senior X-Men, and thus, he assumed command of the group. His wakefulness forced him to press forward, the dwindling moments of Magneto’s assault replaying in his head as a sort of motivation. Like a cross, the burden of the team’s lives and the Professor’s vision fell squarely onto his narrow shoulders, and he bore the weight as best he could.

So far, he commended himself on his progress. They’d swept the entire student quarters and were on the way to the garage. In Kurt’s opinion, the mansion wasn’t the safest place to house the students anymore, so they had to relocate. “Children first” was his motto and guide--these were young, innocent mutants caught in the war of X-Men and Magneto. Harm should be the last thing to befall them. Besides, they were the living embodiment of the Professor’s dream, and if nothing else, they’d carry on his legacy should the worst of worst case scenarios come to pass.

Concern-wise, the team came in a close second, providing yet another reason to get to the garage as soon as possible. Warren was in Manhattan and untouched by this catastrophe. Not only could he give the children sanctuary, his formidable skills would be a huge asset when rescuing everyone else.

Kurt’s own health ranked a distant third on his priority list. However, the issue of his wounds remained a simmering question, one which both Jubilee and Sam wouldn’t let go.

“Jubilee’s right, Kurt. Ya gotta get that arm in’a splint.”

“The students, Frau Lee and Herr Guthrie, need us.”

No denying that. As stated before, Christmas left the student dorms devoid of its usual bustle, but a handful of children stayed behind for whatever reasons. The trio of X-Men had the remaining Stepfords, Wolverine’s new protégé Dust (or Sooraya), and the ever angsty and deadly Kevin Ford, codenamed Wither, with them.

“I think everyone else is away,” said Sofie.

Mindee picked up the sentence. “They’re in town having fun till late.”

“It’s the holidays,” Phoebe added, sidling up to Sam ever so slightly.

“And this,” Celeste grumbled, half at mansion’s ruins and half at her sister, “Just had to happen.”

“Bleh,” gagged Jubilee, “Frosty sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

Wincing in pain, Kurt took stock of his group and let his leadership skills take over. He’d seen and heard enough: now was a time for action. “Tis not safe here,” he began, “the students must be moved to a secure location while Herr Guthrie and myself track Magneto down. So, everyone except Jubilee will come with me to Warren’s home in Manhattan.”

“Why not me?” Jubilee interrupted, pissed at being left out yet again, “I ain’t chopped liver!”

In the past, he didn’t trust the girl’s judgment or abilities. That was the past. Through Logan’s testimony and her own triumphs, he learned to respect her unorthodox ways. Leaving her wasn’t a slight, but rather a show of his utmost confidence.

“You know the area better than anyone and can use the landscape to your advantage. Should Magneto return, I have no doubt you can elude him. Your job is to appraise returning people of the situation and direct them to Warren’s. Frau Lee, I put the safety of the absent students and X-Men in your capable hands.”

Well, since he put it that way, the Asian girl relented.

Celeste, ever the sarcastic one, leaned over and whispered into Kevin’s ear, “The others are in big trouble.”

“Hey! I heard that!”

*****************

Dane Whitman made the most of the confusion and slipped behind the bathrooms of Battery Park. The Statue of Liberty stood a small distance before him, but tonight, the figure wasn’t the focus of everyone’s attention: a plane crash was. Police sirens and fire trucks sped toward the Bay while shocked tourists ran for cover.

Yes, he felt the chaos here, the chaos of the portal and the chaos of the people. From chaos brewed power, but only if one knew how to harness it. Avoiding detection in hectic times was a power all of its own, and Dane took advantage of it.

These mortals would never know what hit them.

The pendant he wore glowed an eerie red.

“Lord Belasco,” he intoned, “Your time is now.”

The pendant shattered and bathed his body in energy, enough energy to annihilate the seal some do-gooders put on the portal to his Master’s realm. Bolts of crimson lightning flashed from his fingertips and converged above a large patch of grass. Inhuman howls filled the park, but by the time anyone detected anything, the portal to the Otherworld’s demonic dimensions flared open like an angry cut in the fabric of space. Beings oozed through, hunger driving their actions, the smell of fresh meat too alluring to pass up. Their forms solidified into mockeries of the human body. Morbidly resplendent accessories dotted each demon--mouths in chests, gaping holes with putrid smells, even tortured amalgams of multiple creatures.

Fellow demons called these things shades, the lowest of the low, the proverbial rejects of all demonhood. They weren’t so much individuals as they were the remains of individuals. Demons not strong enough to keep their limbs and lives got thrown into these monstrosities, there to be recycled and reused for their Master’s purposes. Becoming part of a shade was the ultimate insult and a sure condemnation of one’s fate: shades were always first to the battle and almost always decimated by the enemy.

Still, they had their purpose.

At their very sight, terrified citizenry ran. Some of the faster shades gave chase, pouncing on their meals and messily tearing, chewing, melting, and or outwardly digesting slabs of flesh and bone. A beat cop fired his pistol. The bullets tore through one of the uglier shades, spewing puss and other fluids all over its no longer struggling victim. The cop’s victory was short lived: another jumped on top of him, rendering him a mere stain on the ground.

His gun clambered into the bushes.

Trees leaned; streetlights bent; the nearby waves grew taller; the earth shook. Dane Whitman, or the being formerly known as Dane Whitman, cackled in glee. No longer needing to hide, he let the power lift him ten feet into the air. The portal widened and more things came through, yet more still waiting in the wings.

Belasco... Lord Belasco was almost here...

Some minutes later, Magneto, along with his prisoners and allies, touched down on the Empire State Building a few blocks away.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 31

Title: Twisting the Dagger

Chapter 30: Twisting the Dagger

Using a low branch, X’ian pulled herself to her feet. A good, long rest on the cold soil did wonders, though unfortunately, not miracles. She didn’t want to die anymore, but wanting to throw up for the rest of her life didn’t sound like a nice way to spend the evening. Two of everything surrounded her, the result of hitting her head on... on... something. Something hard. The back of hand wiped the sweat off her brow, but she recalled sweat being less viscous and much more translucent. Oh, and she recalled the action being a lot less painful.

Stumbling, she leaned against a tree for support. Her sides flared angrily and shortened her breaths. Pieces of bark picked at her thigh, yet another pain to add to the current litany. The wet ground beneath her snuck in because of her weight. Above the ringing in her ears, crickets and other little critters chirped. The moon cast the surroundings in an eerie glow highlighted by dancing flames and dreamy smoke.

X’ian shook her head. The quick movement upset her precarious equilibrium and she emptied her stomach. The plus side was that she did feel better; the minus side was she still felt horrible. Finally getting some control of herself, she slowly appraised her environment.

Tall trees and one nearly destroyed Mark 3. That was it. What a landscape. Nothing but shadows and fiery redness to keep her company. Redness... Red...

Rachel... Where was Rachel?!

Why was the Mark 3 a gnarl of wreckage?

Think!

Let’s see...

They, meaning Rachel and herself, went to intercept Fantomex on Jean’s orders. Rachel was pissed the guy for double-crossing her dad and said as much as they took off. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the lack of sleep, but X’ian found the tirade endearing. After puttering around for a good while, they spotted Fantomex’s bug shaped craft. Without forewarning, a jolt of electricity triggered the Mark 3’s self-destruct mechanism. How it happened or who did it X’ian had no clue, but stuff blew up all around them.

Fantomex escaped. They went down. Finally, darkness.

“Rachel,” she weakly called out. “Rachel!”

Not like she expected an answer. Not like she expected to actually hear the answer if there was one. Plane crashes had the uncanny ability to kill, maim, and knock out people like that. X’ian’s ears still rung loud enough to almost drown out her own thoughts.

Unsteadily, the woman shuffled to the gutted plane. Over the tree roots, around the torn metal, past the seemingly intact cockpit lay the object of her search. X’ian’s first reaction? Throw up again. There was so much blood, blood here, there, everywhere. A piece of long shrapnel jutted into Rachel’s midsection. Cuts criss-crossed her like a horror movie monster. At some point, her eyes swelled shut. Her right leg bent at a strange, obtuse angle. The remnants of her costume did nothing to protect her from the night cold.

But yet Rachel lived. Her fingers flexed and she made small sounds of suffering. A lesser person would’ve stopped struggling for life, but Rachel was a strong one. She’d survived apocalyptic futures, mutant slavery, and the worst of the Phoenix Force--a simple plane crash wouldn’t do her in. At least, X’ian hoped not.

“Rachel,” she called out again.

The writhing slowed.

“Rachel!”

The red head mumbled something.

God, blood, and still more found ways to seep out. Every injury on Rachel looked fatal, and X’ian didn’t have the medical know-how to be of any use. Again another friend slipping away and all she could do was watch.

No. She could do something. Might not save Rachel, but at least she wouldn’t feel so much pain. X’ian closed her eyes and used her unique mutant powers to assume control of Rachel’s battered body. Immediately, mind-shattering hurt cut her down. X’ian acted as a buffer, removing Rachel from the constant hounding by her wounds. Possessing someone like this would never save the body, but at least her friend wouldn’t spend her last moments in agony.

X’ian only hoped she didn’t die with Rachel in the process.

*****************

Yvette Kelson-Pratt loved her job as a cameraperson for CNN. Lots of interesting things happened in the New York City and to have a front row seat to see the action? Whoa, just a totally unbelievable life experience. She planned to use her connections here to fulfill her real passion--filming documentaries-- but her time at the news broadcaster wouldn’t soon be forgotten. The heart warming stories, the pulse racing shots, the cerebral aftermaths all made for a surreal smattering of memories.

Like this one for instance. Kind of hard to forget dangling off one of the world’s tallest buildings while held aloof by the whim of the craziest of mutant crazies. Yeah, Yvette had a good memory for the life-threatening moments.

“Are you live?”

Scared out of her mind, the woman nodded.

“Good.”

Magneto wretched the camera from her grasp and watched her fall eighty six stories to the chaotic streets below.

“Hehe,” laughed Toad, “Good one, Master.”

Under the control of Magneto’s magnetism powers, the camera spun around and filmed all the occupants of the roof. A host of X-Men remained semi-frozen in the background, all collared, beaten, and or unconscious. Iceman stood by his teammates, watched like a hawk by Esme and Lorna. Toad and Magneto brought up the front while Sage, smile and sunglasses ever-present, leaned against a pillar off to the side.

No one knew what to make of her.

A small craft descended from the sky. Everyone but Sage and Magneto tensed, but only the latter moved to meet the vessel. It hatched open to reveal one ski mask wearing man.

“Weapon XIII,” greeted Magneto.

“Fantomex,” the man corrected as he folded his laptop and bounded to the ground, “And you got a nice setup going. My employer said you’d be up here, but I was kind of skeptical myself.”

“This employer of yours...”

Exposed eyes twinkled with amusement. “The Master of Magnetism checkin’ out the new guy? Why, I’m honored. Yes, Attrior sent me, so call your hounds off and feel the love, ok?”

“There is no love, Weapon XIII. This is war.”

“This is payday,” Fantomex replied, “I’m getting my share of the pie by shooting wise guys and keeping your ass alive. Don’t expect me to fall head over heels because of your rhetoric.”

“The age of the Homo Superior is at hand, yet you still strive for false riches created by mere humans?”

“Right.” Fantomex drew his guns and examined them. “Next time you want a burger, tell that to the cashier. I’m sure it’ll go over real well.”

“Your agenda sickens me.”

“And your agenda doesn’t feed me.”

Magneto’s sneer deepened. He dismissively pointed his weapons. “What do you expect to do with those pitiful pistols of yours?”

“Uhhh, shoot someone?”

“And your power?”

Fantomex tilted his head toward his vessel. “That’s E.V.A., my ship, my mutation, my nervous system, and for today only, my weapons cache. She’s got enough explosives and firearms tucked away to carve a mile wide crater in the ground, so while my mutant power may not be sexy like yours, it gets the job done.”

Magneto didn’t hide his distain as he spun around to face the floating, still recording camera. This Attrior character had yet to steer him wrong, and while he had his suspicions about the unknown benefactor, he also knew that help, especially good help, was hard to come by. Who else had access to designer doses of Kick? Who else had so much information on the inner workings of the X-Men? Who else knew of his daughter’s secondary mutation? Who else could guarantee the absence of nearly all of the X-Men on a given night?

Until things unraveled--which in war, all things did--he’d trust Attrior’s judgment on Fantomex and consider him an uneasy ally.

For now, this was his time.

“Humans!” boomed Magneto, “Your end is upon you. Tonight, as we Homo Superior reclaim our birthright, the streets of your greatest city will run red with your blood. Your sins against us will haunt you when our kind hunts you to extinction. We will have no mercy, just like you and your governments have no mercy for us.”

He laughed in a sinister way, his hand pointing at the prisoners behind him. “This is the fabled X-Men, the traitors of my people. I’ve defeated them with nothing but a thought, and I will do the same to those who oppose me and my dream.

“My brethren! My true brethren, heed my call! Rally around me! Come from the depths of your human-made prisons and rise with me to create a new world, a new existence, a New Genosha, a place where you can be free, where your children will not be persecuted. Throw off the yokes of your inferiors! The time for war has begun.”

His fist clenched and the camera exploded.

Lorna shot up.

Chaos ensued.

Tessa kept smiling.

*****************

“Kurt, where’s Paige?!”

“Magneto has her and we don’t know where he went.”

Warren kicked the wall of his spacious condo. “He has everyone else too?”

“Mostly, but I can’t be sure. We need to leave the students with you. With Magneto loose, the school isn’t safe.”

“Agreed. Who knows what that man is going to do next...”

“Be calm, my friend. We’ll find Paige.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Another voice in the background piped up. “Get ah splint for’ Kurt!”

The request worried Warren. “You ok?”

“Nothing to be rattled over. We’ll be there soon. Ten minutes tops.”

“Careful now, don’t need any more problems.”

“Indeed, Warren. Auf wiedersehen.”

As the line went dead, the muted television--on CNN--flashed with the words of “Breaking News.” Warren returned to the volume to its former state.

“This just in: New York City is under attack by renowned mutant radical, Magneto...”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 32

Title: Who Needs Rescuing?

Chapter 31: Who Needs Rescuing?

Firefighters pulled them out of the bone chilling, pneumonia inducing water and draped them in heavy overcoats. A small crowd gathered there, and amongst them, reporters snapped photos. At first, most thought they were terrorists, but one look at two women played on their prejudice: the duo had to be victims. Women couldn’t be terrorists, especially blonde women. The people went from hostile to concerned, craning their necks to check out these plane crash survivors.

A few overzealous cameramen ducked under the police lines to grab that exclusive shot for tomorrow’s front page. The authorities tried their best to bar these mavericks, but the bulbs still flashed and the masses kept coming. One of the men caught a glance a Emma’s distinctive features and his pulse quickened.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “that’s Emma Frost! That’s the mutant they’re all talkin’ about!”

Of course, the mention of mutant sent everyone into a hysteria. The reporters pressed against the firefighters and police; the crowds whispered in delight. Who knew the night would become so interesting? Muddled shouts drowned out the threats of arrest.

The questions came fast.

“Ms. Frost! Over here!”

“What were you doing in that plane?!”

“We need a statement!”

“How do you respond to Isa Hayes’ accusations?”

“Are you a mutie?!”

Betsy squeezed Emma’s hand as they slowly made their way to the ambulance.

*Don’t let them get to you, Emma.*

*Oh, mark my words, I’ll ruin every one of these pieces of trash if it’s the last thing I do.*

The snide comment eased Betsy’s mind. After seeing Emma so raw and exposed earlier, Betsy wondered how she’d do against adversity and if that indefatigable spirit had been crushed through her ordeal. Glad to know Emma could still channel her inner strength--and inner bitch--when necessary.

*That’s it, honey,* encouraged Betsy, *think evil thoughts.*

*Now we’re giving each other endearing names?*

*Well, you don’t look like a pumpkin. How about I follow Rogue’s lead? Does sugah sound pleasing enough?*

The venomous glare Emma directed at the reporters landed briefly on her fellow X-Woman. *Watch yourself, Betsy. I’m not above petty revenge.*

*What kind of revenge, sweetie pie?*

They stopped at stared at each other for a split second. Emma broke into a maniacal grin. *I christen thee ‘bub.’*

Betsy held her hands up in defeat. *That hurts both of us: you for saying it, me for taking it.*

*A small price to pay, bub.*

Their banter tuned out the crowds and reporters, and by the time Emma resumed glaring at the vultures, they’d been escorted closer to the ambulance. A harried and overwhelmed whelp of a paramedic tried to assess their conditions, take their temperatures, and see what kind of treatment they required.

What he saw astounded him.

The human body operated at an optimal core temperature of 98.6 degrees. Moderate hypothermia set in when the core temperature hit 95 degrees, resulting in shivering, mild confusion, sluggish movements, and speech impediments. In the dead of winter, such a state wasn’t difficult to attain, especially when wet. Doctors defined severe hypothermia as under 90 degrees, and the best way to dip one’s core temperature so dangerously low was to take a long swim in a freezing environment.

Dead of winter. New York. Ice chunks floated in the bay. It qualified.

These two women, who should’ve been suffering from pulmonary edema, respiratory failure, muscle rigidity, and heart fibrillation, showed remarkable qualities.

The blonde--now adequately identified as Emma Frost--retained a 97 degree body temperature, but yet, when the firefighters pulled her up, she was soaking wet. Only someone who’d taken a quick dip in icy waters then been properly insulted afterward could maintain such a state. Witnesses clearly saw the plane go down about a hundred yards from shore: even for the fastest of swimmers, a hundred yards did not equate to a quick dip.

And the other woman? The tall, Asian beauty? She should’ve been dead. Her skin radiated no body heat. She had neither pulse nor blood pressure. She didn’t breathe and didn’t shiver. Instead of looking like someone who’d just escaped death, she looked mildly annoyed.

The paramedic gulped, fear claiming his rationale. Those questions and accusations of “mutant” sounded louder by the second, and self-preservation dominated his thoughts. Yes, paramedics were suppose to help anyone in need, but this... this was asking a little too much. He’d only been on the job for three weeks and he had a family to think about. Treating mutants? What would his friends say? Would these women bite his head off?

One of the firefighters knocked his shoulder. “Yo,” the burly man grimaced, “Don’t you have a job to do?”

“But... but...”

“But nothin’,” said the firefighter, “You’re not going to stand there and watch these girls freeze, are ya?”

“They’re mutants!”

“And we’re right here,” Emma said icily, taking notice of the paramedic’s name on his badge. “Mr. Carter, I’m wet, I’m cold, and I’m besieged by reporters. Unless it’s suddenly become standard protocol to stare at plane crash victims, wipe that dumbstruck look off your face and get us out of here.”

But they’re mutants! Filthy mutants who’d use their freaky powers to take over the world! Was he really suppose to help things like that? Nowhere in his contract did it mention anything about treating those of the nonhuman species.

In another second, Emma would’ve did something drastic to his brain. In another second, Betsy would’ve been too late in restraining Emma’s actions. In another second, the young paramedic’s life would’ve changed forever, and not necessarily for the better.

Another second passed, but something else ensued. The ground shook and people gasped. In the distance by the park bathrooms, a red bolt of lightning bundled itself into a globe of electricity. Shadows appeared inside the hovering mass. They distorted then pushed through, oozing onto the grass like gallons of syrup, but no one saw where the shadows ended up. Desperate squeals, most human some not, wailed from behind the trees.

A primal urged stirred inside of Betsy. The hunger from earlier came back; she felt her shadowy tendrils fight against her restraint. All around her stood slabs of meat, of food, so easy, so tempting, so innocent. She hugged the fireman’s overcoat closer to her body, as if huddling up would stave away the demonic need. Everywhere, meat, food. She tried to focus on something else, the ambulance, the ground beneath her feet, anything, but her keen instincts refused to be fooled. Victims. Meals. Victims everywhere.

Victims, all of them, until she looked into a pair of blue eyes.

Unnatural pulses of anger and submission flared through their bond, warping Betsy, and by extension, warping Emma. And Emma didn’t take kindly to psychic invaders. *It’s Belasco, isn’t it?*

Betsy nodded, her motions strained, her thoughts warring against each other--instinct versus instinct, power versus power, self versus self. *I can feel him behind the portal... he... he’s calling to me...*

*He’s telling you to unleash that demon inside of you, telling you to come back to him, telling you to hate and kill and maim.*

*Yes,* she trilled, her claws unconsciously extending and facial features distorting.

*Betsy.* No response.

More forcefully this time. *Betsy.*

Brown eyes opened, disfigured by ecstasy.

*Betsy, look at me.*

The bloodlust stayed, but at least she didn’t look away.

*Am I a victim to you?*

Seconds passed and the screams grew louder. So loud, so musical, so diabolical... they stirred umbral needs, and in turn, the needs called her to join in the battle and please her master. No, please Master, not master. Master saved her, gave her this body, made her whole again when her family left her behind.

*Do you see me as meat?* Emma pressed.

Emma... no... Emma wasn’t a victim... she wasn’t meat... she was Emma. Emma was precious; Emma didn’t force her to do things she didn’t like, not like her master. Beyond the urges to bloodshed, beyond the lure of master, and beyond the hunger stood Emma radiating neither hope nor promises. What they were to each other hadn’t been established yet, but what they felt couldn’t be denied: love. It was a freeing love, one holding no untruths or schoolgirl wishes, just a statement of now, a young love.

What young love lacked in direction, it made up for in strength.

*N... no.*

The blonde leaned closer to her companion. *Answer me.*

*No.*

They clasped hands, Betsy’s aforementioned claws gone. *What did you say?*

*No, you’re not meat.*

*Say it like you mean it, like had to choose between Belasco and me.*

*No. You’re not a victim or meat. You’re my Emma.*

*You have to choose. What am I to you?*

Blue eyes, luscious lips, kind face--Emma had faith in her. Couldn’t let Emma down. Betsy’s muscles relaxed and her bloodlust calmed. Belasco’s hold over her still remained, but another’s hold was stronger. Emma. *You’re my Emma.*

The blonde nodded in approval. *Good, and you’re my Elisabeth. Don’t forget that.*

No sooner had they fended off Betsy’s demon did more malicious ones come barging into view. When the portal flashed to existence, it shocked the crowd and froze the people in place, no amount of yelling and grotesque sounds budging them. However, when the first of the shades approached, the horror became real for them.

Tourists ran for their lives.

The firefighters ushered people away.

Policemen--all fifteen of them--drew guns and fired.

Reporters snapped photos.

Shouts of “Dirty muties!” emanated from the more courageous people, who, upon seeing the monstrosities close up, shut their mouths and ran. The fast wave of fast moving shades succumb to the police’s hail of bullets. Too bad a second wave stomped through the trees and bowled into the police who were reloading their weapons. Bony protrusions exposed organs while sharp incisors lunged at the soft meat. Brawny arms batted away attacks and acidic spit from a particularly nasty shade turned bone into a grainy, soupy broth. The authorities fought valiantly to save the fleeing citizens, but the numbers and stronger individuals rendered resistance futile.

Shades feasted on those brave, fallen frontline fighters and dangled human pieces from their maws like wolves. More shades came, but seeing claimed food and quickly retreating meals, they turned away for easier pickings elsewhere.

Ten dead. Five policemen, two firefighters, and three reporters. Looked like a hundred people were slaughtered here given the rivulets of blood and chunks of limbs scattered about. Five shades enjoyed their victory and fed, oblivious to the world...

Until a clawed hand punched through one of their stomachs. Googly eyes turned to the unexpected disturbance. The skewered shade glanced at his erstwhile midsection, then up at his fellow shades, shuddered at the pain, and finally fell over, disentangling his insides from his killer.

A seven foot, five armed titan let out a roar and stampeded at a smiling Betsy. The woman didn’t even look impressed at the massive bunch of muscles, instead bringing her blood covered hands to her sides and straightening her back. What appeared to an easy kill became a deadly trap when, from the side, a crystallized boot blasted into its square chin. The thing wobbled before tumbling face first to the ground just inches before Betsy.

A diamond Emma flicked a blade of grass off her shoe. “Do you think these things are smart enough to know fear?”

Betsy shrugged. “Probably not.”

And indeed they weren’t. The three left cast away their meals and growled at the two interlopers. One had long, sharp bones jutting out of every conceivable section of its body, something like a disgusting humanoid porcupine. One could only be described as a huge mouth with legs--it derived its menacing countenance from the jagged teeth littering its jaw. The third resembled an ugly, fat man, only across his considerable gut was a slit, a slit which would open and spew corrosives.

They pooled themselves together and stumbled at the pretty, shiny woman.

“I think they like me,” Emma noted.

Betsy went into her defensive stance and peered at the blonde. “What can I say? We demons have a thing for you.”

The tubby acid spitter crashed into Emma, his digestive juice harmlessly beading off her diamond body. Sporting an impious smirk, Emma pulled his orifice closed. The fat demon growled and beat his meaty arms against the blonde, but she didn’t let go. Angry blows turned desperate as his stomach quivered and smoked. His skin lost cohesion, melted by his own acid. A quick knock to the chest separated his upper torso from his lower extremities.

Meanwhile, Betsy tangoed with two shades. Emma opted for dramatics, but Betsy relied on quick, compact, and efficient combat. Nimble enemies these things were not, and one wide sweep brought both of them to their backs. Betsy impaled the mouthy monster to death by kicking it into his bony friend. Making a judgment call as to wear the bony one’s head was, she wrapped her hands around two protrusions and twisted until a snap signaled the end of the fight.

Emma sighed. “We have to get out of here.”

“The portal’s so near,” said Betsy, eyes closed and body geared up for an epic battle, “We can close it before it gets worse.”

“Look to the left.”

She expected more enemies; she got a host of wide-eyed, open-mouthed people. Yes, many fled, but many still remained, morbid curiosity rooting them in place. What were they thinking? Why didn’t they just yield to their fight-or-flight instincts?

Stupid rubberneckers.

“Well?” asked Betsy, “What are you waiting for? Death? Get out of here!”

The people started backing away but still wouldn’t run.

“Um, no, Betsy, your other left.”

A familiar face materialized, followed of course by the appropriate familiar body draped in familiar vestments. Pointy ears, distinctive facial hair, and glistening garbs served to enunciate his unholiness, the former ruler of Limbo, the greatest of demonic magi, the one and only Belasco. His countenance seemed to bolster his forces, for as he descended, beasts roared, cars crashed, and the ground shook. Betsy stifled the temptation to run to the portal prostrate herself before him.

Behind him, a host of winged women pushed through. From a distance, they could’ve been mistaken for angels, but an unholy rage marred their faces, one which chilled the bone of even the most casual observers. Naked, beautiful, and ever so deadly, these sirens let out melodious cries and leapt into the night sky in search of glassy-eyed prey.

Emma grabbed Betsy’s arm and dragged away from the park. “I believe this is where we retreat and call your Otherworld friends.”

“Retreat?” groaned Betsy, “Retreat where? You think anywhere is safe in the city with hell about to come onto earth?”

The blonde pointed her finger at a nearby skyscraper, the home of Frost Enterprises. “Trust me when I say my tower is easier to defend than Battery Park.” Returning to her flesh and blood body, Emma used her telepathy to snatch the crowd’s attention. Once the dumbfounded focused on her, she cleared her throat and declared, “Everyone who doesn’t want to end up as a monster’s midnight snack can seek shelter two blocks away in my company’s building.”

Still few of them budged. Stupid, stupid curious people.

“GO!” A good punch of psychic suggestion laced the order, and only then did people get moving en mass.

A little voice in the back of her head complained about random peons soiling her immaculate office. Undeniable, but as heartless as Emma was, she couldn’t leave these people here to die. Something about a conscience and fighting for the greater good gnawed at her like a rabid pup. She blamed her blossoming humanitarianism squarely on Betsy and their bond.

Young love tended to blind people and induce goodwill.

“God, I’m going soft.”

***************

- To be continued...

Chapter 33

Title: The Real McCoy

Chapter 32: The Real McCoy

Jubilee silently snuck through the roofless mansion. Hanging out by the gates waiting for stray students to come back was fine, but it was also damned cold. Not that a roofless mansion was much better mind you, but at least the walls kept the unforgiving wind out. While she liked the cold as much as the next New York girl, she also didn’t like becoming a popsicle a la Bobby “Snowman” Drake.

So she tip toed about, her ears straining for any disturbances. Hey, Wolvie taught her every trick in the book and armed with the knowledge, she felt at one in this eerie darkn-

“OUCH! Sonovabitch!”

Oops. Didn’t mean to swear. Didn’t mean to stumble over the coat rack either. Jubilee gave the offending furniture a sound trashing before moving on. Hey, no one saw anything, therefore, Magneto did it. Capture the X-Men, tear the roof off the mansion, and maul the coat rack--super villains could be so cruel.

Up the debris laden stairs she went. Whoops, almost tripped again on a piece of roofing. Man, Kurt should’ve mentioned that mansion-sitting was a hazardous job: terrible conditions, deadly obstacles, and that horrible smell.

“Yuck,” gagged Jubilee. “Smells like... like... gunpowder.” She sniffed again. “Or maybe Remy’s cookin’.”

Gunpowder? Elf boy mentioned a big boom coming from Betsy’s room during Magneto’s grand entrance. Had the time now, might as well check it out. Besides, it was close.

Very thing she noticed at Betts’ quarters? No door. The big boom knocked it clean off its hinges and into the wall across the hall. The insides fared no better. All those expensive and delicate Japanese artifacts the telepath so loved were in varying states of brokenness.

Porcelain vases became shards.

Katanas bent from a concussive force.

The bed still smoldered a little.

Mirrors, clothes, and all manners of cloth covered the entire spectrum of charredness.

“Betts is going to blow a gasket.”

No point in staying longer. While admiring an executive leather chair imbedded in the wall passed the time, Jubilee didn’t want Psylocke coming back and blaming her for the mess. Oh, and come back she would seeing how there were no signs of her body parts in the room.

On the way out, she spotted an interesting tidbit. “Hold the phone.”

A green, nylon strap chilled on the floor, bits of tattered material hanging by a pair of intact metal loops on either end of the long strip. Looked like the poor remains of those sports bags Cajun Country and Wolvie used so often. In the words of Betsy, “I hate--absolutely abhor--those pitiful excuses for containers. By God, use a suitcase and get that eyesore out of my face.”

What would Betts be doing with something like this? Easy, she wouldn’t be, which meant the erstwhile cloth belonged to Remy, Wolvie, or someone more sinister, like the certain someone who carried explosives in this bag and fucked up Betts’ room.

“Jubes,” the girl said to herself, “You’re a freakin’ genius.”

She fished a stick from the ground, carefully lifted the strap up, and dunked it in her pocket. Hey, she learned the trick from CSI. Now, off to the labs down below! There were fingerprints to be had!

She was about to skitter off when the faint sounds of heavy breathing graced her ears. From where? From there! From that room! With a fearsome battle cry, Jubilee bolted down the hallway and jump kicked the door (Not like the Professor wasn’t going to repair everything anyway). The effect would’ve been spectacular if the door flew open, but it didn’t. Instead, Jubilee’s nasty kick made a hole which did an admirable job of trapping her leg.

The heavy breathing slowed. Quiet footsteps shuffled closer. Jubilee prepared herself for the worst and began gathering her pyrotechnic powers.

“Jubilation? Is that your leg or are you just happy to see me?”

She dissipated her sparks and let her racing heart slow. “Papa bear,” she sighed, “Ain’t I glad it’s you.” Her cheeks brightened when she remembered her precarious position. “Umm... little help?”

Furry hands eased her limb out of the hole. As Jubilee plopped onto the floor rubbing her sore and scratched leg, Hank McCoy opened the door and smiled at her to keep the mood light; however, the jovial greeting failed to erase his puffy red eyes, matted hairs, and haggard expression.

Right away, Jubilee picked up on his less-than-happy disposition. “Whoa, you look like day old crud.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment: I feel like week old crud.”

Like Emma said: “They’re young, not stupid.” Though her grades didn’t reflect the statement, no one mistook her for a dim witted fool either. The facts present told Jubilee why Hank was standing here and not captured like the other X-Men.

Well, the facts and the rumors she’d been gathering for some days.

“Should I just leave or do you wanna hang?”

“I suppose the adult response would be to assist you in this rather cataclysmic event.”

“Screw being adult for a second, big blue. Elf boy left me here to look after people, and I ain’t skimpin’. You need to be alone or you need to talk?”

Jubilation Lee--how much Logan’s little girl had grown. The rebel still burned within her, but she tempered it with uncanny wisdom, the product of many years in the line of fire. If he scoured his brain far enough, Hank could see the too cool for school teen trying her hardest to look and sound apathetic during her first visit to the mansion.

In a way, Logan’s little girl became everyone’s little girl, and those endearing memories warmed Hank just enough to open up. The Beast parked his big self on the ground in front of the teen. “This cowering doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“No biggie.” Jubilee stretched a few times to work the kinks out of her leg. “Don’t tell no one, but there’s been plenty of times I just wanted to hide under my bed. Can’t blame you, ya know, having quit and all.”

Hank hung his bedraggled head. “Oh my stars and garters... I’ve let those close to me down again.”

“You didn’t, papa bear.”

“How’s that? The very second the mansion shakes, I’m locked in a closet praying for the fear to leave my bones. How are my actions not deplorable?”

“Well, ya didn’t die--that, in my humble opinion, would’ve been the ultimate letdown. Think of it this way: if you’d thrown yourself in front of Magneto and his cronies, they would’ve swiss cheesed you.”

The mention of Magneto sent Hank closer to the edge. “Magneto? He was here?!”

“Whoa,” calmed Jubilee. “Forget your meds this morning? You’ve seen the man before--about yay high and greasy white hair.” The girl gazed into Hank’s eyes and shook her head. “What’s wrong with you, Hank? Never seen you like this before, all petered out and cringin’. You used to be superman, big blue.”

“My dear, even Superman hung up his cape.”

“Yeah, but he put it back on when trouble came a knockin’. I dunno, maybe you just need to leave it all behind for a little, ya know? Sort like what Wolvie does? I hate it when he takes off like that, but I have to admit he comes back brand spankin’ new.”

“I have been away, but the distance has not helped. My Walden Pond eludes me.”

Walden... who? “Over my head.”.

“My peace eludes me,” Hank clarified. Dr. McCoy took control when he realized Jubilee truly had no inkling of the literary reference. “Of course you’ve read Walden Pond by the great Transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau. He talks of a detachment from society and the fulfillment brought about by an intimate communion with Nature. If I remember right, Ms. Frost made it required reading at the Massachusetts Academy, citing it as a valuable treatise on civil disobedience, life experiences, nature’s beauty, and personal freedom.”

Jubilee batted her lashes. “Must’ve missed that one...”

“Missed Thoreau? What in high heaven was going on up there?”

“Back off, I was probably resting my eyes in class.”

Snorting, Hank folded his arms. “Unlikely given Emma’s penchant for telepathic spying.”

“What class would this have been for? History?”

Oh, that got Hank going. “Literature! English!”

“Yup, missed that one. Probably played hooky.”

Hooky? “You play hooky and leave such a wonder to the winds of ignorance? Jubilation Lee, I am sorely disappointed in you!”

“Hey, playin’ hooky’s done plenty good for me, more than this Thoreau guy ever could! I bet all the stuff he’s ever said about life I’ve heard a million times already!”

“Really Ms. Smarty Pants? Let’s hear it then.”

So this guy was a nature lovin’, hippy philosopher, huh? “I bet he said stuff about sanctity of life and how you and me, we’re in this together and we’ll make it through somehow.”

Hank’s eye twitched. “He did write that no human being would ‘wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by the same tenure as he does.’”

“Nice,” she smiled, oddly pleased with herself, “Guess who wrote that junk about being in this together?’”

“Kurt Vonnegut? Ayn Rand? Jack Kerouac?”

“Nope, Trent Reznor, Nine Inch Nails.”

“An outlier of a comment,” Hank dismissed, “Another bull’s-eye may convince otherwise though.”

What else did hippies believe in? “Umm... we live life like a rat race and it’s keeping us down because we’re not concerning ourselves with the big picture?”

“‘The mass of men lead life in quiet desperation,’” Hank quoted, the line very much echoing his current depressed state of being, “And coincidentally enough, Thoreau also noted that ‘the universe is far wider than our views of it.’”

While Jubilee glowed with pride, the intellectual stimulation left Hank and returned him to... to... a happier place? In the wake of his literary escape, Thoreau’s wisdom lingered and pecked at his unraveling, and now seemingly unreasonable, emotional responses to trauma. A great weight eased itself off his shoulders; through the bottomless pit of sorrow he’d drowned himself in for these days in the mansion, a speck of hope glimmered.

As Thoreau alluded to: life would go on. Whether he hid in a closet or battled megalomaniac mutants, existence would continue. These past six months away from the X-Men, he’d been riding out that wave of ever moving life, rediscovering the inventor and letters aficionado in him. He didn’t realize it then, but locked in his work room without a care, he’d unwittingly found his Walden Pond. Looking back, he’d felt rejuvenated and happy.

Then came Betsy and the trip back to the mansion. Jean supposedly undid Betsy’s damage, but his depression remained and tore down his months of bliss. What was it about this place that made him so susceptible to the dementia? By all accounts, he should’ve been laughing it up with the friends and family he missed so much. Instead of celebrating, he spent the past days locked in an anonymous guest quarter feeling sorry for himself. Not even the best of effort of Jean and Kurt could yank him out of his funk.

Where mightier failed, Jubilee succeeded. Why? Was it the odd sense of privacy a half-destroyed mansion granted? Was it the company, the refreshing take on life by a youthful, vigorous, yet patient counselor? Was it the lack of activity that normally heightened the ambient stress about the X-Men? What was it about this mansion that could so quickly giveth and taketh away like a whimsical child?

Whatever “it” was, Hank felt more alive. The water from his Walden flowed again, refreshing his mind, body, and soul. The hurt still reminded, the hurt from Betsy and past experiences, but they didn’t seem as near or overshadowing anymore. If negative emotions had minds of their own, Hank would’ve postulated that all of them decided to gang up on him at the same time. Seemed like every bad thing that ever happened to him dominated him and only now did they fade into the background, finally distanced by time, reflection, and wisdom.

He smiled at Jubilee, a genuine one this time, not the forced lip movements he’d been using since he showed up here. “Your scholarly words amaze me, young lady. Tell me, when did you get so insightful?”

“Since I met all of you.”

“A lie,” he chuckled, ruffling her hair, “but one which pleases the ear.”

“Y’ok now, papa bear? Ya suddenly look like Wolvie after one of his trips. Should I be sad or glad?”

“Glad,” he responded. “And thank you.”

The loud rumble of a plane approached and sent the two scrambling to the windows. A sleek, black jet touched down on the front lawn and blew loose blades of grass into the mansion.

“The Mark 3,” whispered Jubilee.

“I suppose this is a good thing.”

“With the way today’s been going so far? Don’t hold your breath.”

Lights and engines shut down; the landing platform didn’t open. Kitty phased through the metal, in her arms a lump of person. Upon seeing the sorry state of the mansion, the brunette dropped herself and her large burden to the ground, the defeat evident for anyone in plain sight.

“Get on,” said Hank, gesturing for Jubilee to climb on his back, “We’re taking a short cut.”

The Asian girl grabbed a fistful of fur and barely suppressed a “Yeeee-haaaaw!” as the Beast once again took to the air. Maybe there were other problems in and around the world, but here, right now, at least the real McCoy had returned.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 34

Title: From Worst to Worstest

Chapter 33: From Worst to Worstest

Yvette Kelson-Pratt was in love. One second she free fell from the top of the Empire State Building while going through the mandatory flashback of one’s life; the next a dreamy man on a motorcycle jumped high into the air and impossibly caught her in his strong yet gentle arms. That smile, that face, those strange alluring eyes, that slight smell of cigarette smoke...

“So sexy,” she breathed.

Didn’t matter the dude just wrecked his Harley. Didn’t matter he was freezing cold and wet. Didn’t matter he had a terrible case of five o’clock shadow. Yvette was in love and she couldn’t get enough of those dashing features and smooth, silky movements. What a strapping specimen of a man this stranger was. What grace, what speed, what looks, what else?

“Chere, you can leggo of Remy now.”

He referred to himself in the third person! How refreshingly quaint! Oh, and was that a Cajun accent she heard? Whatever, he could be a caveman and she’d lose himself in his voice. His command of the English language only made him so much more appealing.

You know, a caveman might’ve been nice.

Normally, Remy enjoyed the lavish attentions of the opposite sex. Whether at a bar or on a mission, the women adored him and he adored them back. Now, however, was a bad time for his magnetic personality to stick another damsel on him. The Blackbird went down not three blocks away, some kind of red lightning shot into the sky in Battery Park, and if he wasn’t going nuts, Magneto and a motley crue of mutants just parked themselves atop a skyscraper.

Hmm, maybe he did have time for this woman.

Dodging foot and vehicular traffic, Remy--with woman still in his arms--ducked into a twenty four hour video store. Being such a late hour, most of the customers inside congregated around the adult section in the back, and upon hearing the ragin’ Cajun’s entrance, ten pairs of eyes glanced at him.

The spectacle wearing clerk behind the counter droned “Can I help you folks?” before going back to his activity of flipping channels, obviously with no intent of actually helping.

Remy set the woman down and turned on his charm. “Mind tellin’ Remy why pretty things be fallin’ from da sky?”

Yvette wanted to kiss him. Wasn’t that how damsels awarded their knights? No, a kiss was too forward and made her look desperate. Actually, she was desperate, so no inaccuracies there. Her near-fatal fall, subsequent adrenaline rush, the unrelated eight months of celibacy, and this tall, dark, and handsome sex god destroyed the little self-control she had. Life could end at any moment: no way would this stranger be getting away without a kiss.

Oh no, what if he had a wife? Worse yet, what if he was gay? Men looking this good always had strings attached. Would he sue her for sexual assault? Damn, she couldn’t afford to lose her job! She couldn’t take him turning her down either. No, no, no, what if he turned her down AND sued her? Why did his presence seem to bear down on her? Why was the video store so hot all of a sudden? Why did she feel like such a loser?!

Fuck it, girl, stop thinking and starting acting.

Three of the customers put down the adult videos and leered at the developing scene.

Hearing no answer and seeing immense concentration, Remy pressed his lips thinner, raised an eyebrow, and ran a hand through his hair. “Dis angel speaks, no?”

Ruffled, wet locks of brown and the sultry, lyrical words--Yvette gulped. “H...h... Hi.”

Hi? The man of her dreams rescued her from a fateful splat and all her mouth could muster was “Hi?”

“Maybe we got off on de wrong foot,” smiled Remy, “De name’s Remy, Remy LeBeau. Et toi?”

Quick! Make up something! No, real name, just in case he asked for a number! Fake name! Real name! Yvette threw her arms up in frustration and flung herself into his face. The initial act would’ve so much more suave, smooth, and sexy if she didn’t aim too high and smooch his nose. She corrected the mistake ASAP.

The rest of the video store customers watched from their barricades in the adult section.

The store clerk finally settled on one channel and turned up the volume.

“-to call everyone’s attention to these events. Stay calm, citizens of New York. The authorities are working as hard as they can to neutralize these mutant threats. The United States military is mobilizing as we speak, so I urge all of you to stay indoors and do not, under any circumstances, get in the way of these bloodthirsty, insane mutants! Magneto will be stopped-”

“Mon dieu,” grumbled Remy, separating himself from Yvette. The woman sighed contently while he tore out of the video store and back into the increasingly chaotic streets.

While Yvette swooned, the customers resumed their perusal of the adult content.

*****************

Tessa watched New York crumble. As Magneto’s declaration of war disseminated into the community, more and more mutants came out of hiding to exact revenge against their persecutors. Grossly deformed mutants showed themselves, some coming from the back alleys, most rising from the sewers. The Morlocks might’ve been massacred, but enough poor abominations still sought shelter in Manhattan’s filthy underbelly. Suddenly, turning the corner meant the real possibility of running into certain doom, especially if humans came across the more aggressive packs of homo superiors.

A shame. Many could’ve become so much more transient freak shows; their unique abilities fit many of them into society. What construction company couldn’t use a powerful brute? What law firm couldn’t use an eidetic memory? Prejudice precluded them from reaching their potentials because they were different. Magneto gave his species an opportunity to show their oppressors true fear; he gave them a banner to rally around.

One way or another, the white haired wacko would fulfill his people’s potential.

Yet, while mutants fought for their future and their vengeance, unsavory humans ransacked their own people. Cinder blocks broke the windows of abandoned stores; gunfire carried into the night winds. Police sirens bathed streets in blue and red, but not even they could dam the rivers of blood winding into the gutters. In a truly sad twang of irony, by Tessa’s estimation, humans inflicted more damage on themselves than the mutants did on them.

This... this civilization... these people... This was what Charles Xavier wanted to coexist with: opportunistic drones who paid heed to nothing but themselves. Humans.

Tessa’s gaze shifted to Battery Park where hell made its home on earth. Sickening beings crept from an ephemeral tear in reality itself. Awesome outputs of energy pulsed from the portal, each peak signaling another round of demons entering the fray.

And the demons slaughtered everything. For now, Belasco’s small army forced him to remain in the park, unable to take on the vast numbers of humans and mutants. Other pieces would keep him in check until his time. Everyone had a role to play in this game, and Belasco served as the coup de grace. Where thousands of mutants would fail, an endless supply of demons would prevail. It all had to do with timing, planning, and anticipation.

From high above, Tessa watched one of mankind’s greatest cities fall. Everyone reaped what they sow, human, mutant, or demon.

Dear Professor Charles Xavier was no exception.

*****************

One of Quiet Bill’s portals appeared over North Cove. He walked through, followed closely by an impressive sword which was in turn held by an even more impressive man. If Battery Park hadn’t soaked up everyone’s attention, this scene would’ve ended up on the front page of the New York Times. As things stood, no one noticed the two men because everyone was busy running for their lives.

No one noticed Vargas smile and behead Quiet Bill.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 35

Title: Soapboxes Big and Small

Chapter 34: Soapboxes Big and Small

“-has no demands. He’s calling for all of mutantkind to rebel and he’s chosen Manhattan to be his staging ground! I tell you, we should’ve eradicated all mutants when we had the chance!”

“You’re proving the man right and adding fuel to the fire. This is an exact replaying of the 60’s Civil Rights Movement, only scaled up on violence.”

“What the hell are you?! A mutie lover?! By God, the Church of Humanity has been right all along!”

“These people are merely isolationists: they’re fed up with their horrible treatment and want a home for themselves.”

“Not at the cost of millions of lives and trillions of dollars! Not on my watch! New York City is not some backwater track of land I’m willing to give up to appease some mutie! I have family there! I have investments there! We need to send Magnet Head or Mango or whatever he’s calling himself to Northern Alaska where he can take his mutie rejects and leave us normal folk in peace!”

“You’re proposing a mass exodus like when the United States put Native Americans on reservations? Tell me, how did that move work out?”

“Just fine! They were impeding our manifest destiny! We need a ri-”

Over a hundred people packed into the lobby of Frost Tower. Firemen stood shoulder to shoulder with the building’s security guards. Reporters actually stopped taking photos. Teary children hugged whoever was near: parents, ravers, policemen, rescue workers, homeless people. None had ever seen so much brutality, and the sight of their fellow man killed or killing sobered each individual in the room. They felt like victims of conquering armies, helpless and terrified. Some tried to be strong, but the surrounding despair--cries for absent parents, frantic cell phone calls to family--drained the optimism away. Windows revealed the ongoing apocalypse outside.

Motorists abandoned their cars.

A rail thin mutant strangled a woman.

His deformed friend sat on a newspaper stand and cheered him on.

Betsy meditated at the front entrance.

A bus lay on its side, its occupants either in this lobby or dead.

Cries for help went ignored, the plea too numerous to respond to.

A small fire from spilled gasoline winded its way through the streets like a bright snake.

And inside, every one kept an eye and an ear to the television.

“-bad business! We need the marines! We need fighter jets! Let’s see how this maniac responds to fifty caliber bullets!”

“Are you insane? We’ve seen his response time and time before and it’s never been positive for the armed forces. Violence is not the answer.”

“Violence is the only answer! We’re through talking and being peaceful because that’s what got us here today!”

“Your lack of-”

Emma turned off the annoying, cross-fire debate. All sound faded away with the television. “Well, at least we know why mutants are tearing through the city.”

The paramedic, the one with the last name of Carter, spoke for each person in the room. “Aren’t you a mutant?”

Fateful acts came in two flavors: the insignificant yet remarkable or the significant and remarkable. To admit or not to admit--this was Emma’s moment of truth, her very significant, very remarkable fateful decision. The Dark Beast already let out the can of worms, and if she ran, she’d spend forever and a day running from this moment.

Moments of truth had a way of haunting liars like that.

A portion of these people saw her assume her diamond body to fight off the demons, but her strengthened telepathy could erase their memories; however, others not in here could’ve witnessed her transformation. Cameras, so many cameras at the crash site--how many were live? How many weren’t destroyed? How many people here had picture of her shining body? Denial tempted Emma. While it wasn’t the best solution, it was the easiest because it only addressed the present.

She found the present easier to face when the future didn’t factor in.

If she denied the fact, what kind of example would she set to her students? What kind of person would she be? She’d be the White Queen, the woman she hated, the one who let down every child who believed in her. The new leaf she turned over would blow away and leave her with nothing to show for. That was the price of denial, and the reward? Nothing, or nothing guaranteed. She could still lose her company. These people would still be skeptical. The proof would still be out there.

She cloaked herself in the White Queen but didn’t let the persona dictate her actions. Her back straightened. Her eyes acquired a hue of steel. She exuded an aura of command and nobility. This was her sanctuary, her palace, and these, like it or not, were her subjects.

“I am a mutant,” confirmed Emma. Before the admission sunk in, she went on the offensive and leveled her fiercest glare at the crowd.

“Are you surprised that I’d offer protection to humans?” she demanded. “Do you think my goodwill is actually a trap?”

Some looked away.

“Of course you do,” she mocked, “mutants are monsters. We don’t have hearts, we don’t have families, we don’t have dreams, we don’t have lives. We’re just your worst nightmares come true. It’s fine that you look at us like pariahs. It’s fine you fear us. We’re mutants and we’re beyond help, beyond mercy, beyond your wildest imagination, fucked up freaks.”

Disgusted at the stunned silence, the blonde shook her head. “The sad truth is that we are all those things. We’re that and much worse not because of our genetics but because of your treatment. Mutants are monsters because you force the role upon them. Magneto is the manifestation of your bigotry and this destruction is the backlash against your cruelty.

“Me? I am a mutant, but I refuse be anyone’s buffoon. I refuse to propagate the mess your shoddy treatment has started. I refuse to follow Magneto’s ludicrous battle cry. I can’t decide how I was born, but I can decide what I will become.

“I am a mutant. I am a businesswoman. I am a teacher. I live, I breathe, I feel, I hope, I hurt, I succeed, and I fail, just like everyone here. I know wrong when I see it, and this bedlam outside is wrong. There is no way declaring war on humans will accomplish anything but the total annihilation of both sides. Not every mutant wants to rule the world or kill all you ‘flatscans.’ I will not stoop to the pathetic level of dogmatists like the Church of Humanity or Magneto. I am better than them, and if I must use kindness to spite their ilk, then I will.”

The tension thickened so much it weighed down on everyone’s lungs. “Look around you,” Emma commanded. A few hesitant, glassy eyes stared into hopeless ones. “This is how most mutants live--packed together in fear, hoping that they’ll survive the day. How’s the role reversal? Does it feel good to know the very next slip up can be your last? Don’t you want your children to grow up cowering till the end of their sad little existences? No, of course not.

“So why am I saving your lives? Because I know the terror you feel and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone else, mutant or human. Because in order to change your stubborn minds about mutants, I have to start somewhere. Because I hate Magneto for single-handedly putting our progress toward a peaceful coexistence into the stone age. Because while humanity itself has wronged me, none of you have.”

Paramedic Carter cringed.

“Ah,” Emma smiled, “except for him, but I can forgive simpletons.”

Getting off her high horse, she sauntered to the front entrance where Betsy sat. Most, still shocked over her words, parted. Some, respect and gratitude in their eyes, nodded at her. A few, curious and leery, blocked her way.

“What’s your mutant power?”

A woman, and if the voice recorder sticking out of her pocket was any indication, one of the handful of reporters in the room. Her city had been taken over by mutants, she’d escaped doom not thirty minutes ago, and all she wanted was the scoop.

Just throwing her existence away for her job, wasn’t she?

Emma respected the reporter’s audacity. She also used her utter stupidity.

“I can turn my body to diamond,” the blonde answered, shifting before the reporter for good measure. “The ability becomes rather impressive because I lose none of my speed or flexibility and retain the strength and durability of this precious stone. Is that sufficient for you?”

And like a chastised child, the reporter stepped aside.

What a boon--got that underlying question out of the way, settled the unsettled people, and avoided lying by not revealing the whole truth. True, she was also a telepath, but no one needed to know. If by chance they’d get out of this jam alive, the admission of such a socially acceptable power would set many investors, employees, and nosy people at ease. She’d be the family friendly mutant, and the image suited her fine if it gave her an edge against those who’d wish her fortune gone.

Happy day.

“Umm, what’s that other woman doing?”

The reporter again, and this time, she bridged the gap from useful to annoying. “Saving your worthless life,” sneered Emma as she returned to her normal state of being.

Everyone resumed the quiet whispers amongst themselves, Emma Grace Frost the subject of their talks and gazes. Meanwhile, Emma only had eyes for one person.

*You’re straining, Betsy.*

Her fellow mutant shifted her body to get more comfortable. *I’ll have you know psychically discouraging everyone in the vicinity to ignore a building is hard work.*

*We can switch off.*

*No. Just don’t bother me and I’ll be fine. Keeps my mind off of Belasco.*

Damn it, Emma was never good at this affection stuff. She wanted to say something inspiring, but her considerable vocabulary didn’t wake up. Seemed as if no words embodied the encouragement, faith, and strength she wanted to convey.

*The sentiments across the bond are enough,* Betsy said, *The feeling is mutual.*

*I’m turning into a romantic sap.*

*Don’t worry--I can’t associate you with bad poetry, walks on the beach, or old 80’s love songs just yet.*

*And don’t ever.*

Breaking away from Betsy’s smug laughter, Emma brought herself back to the crowd. She had to do something about this packed place. Mutants and demons came in all shapes, sizes, and powers. Who knew if any of them could see through Betsy’s psychic ruse and charge the place? If that happened, fending off whatever attacks while keeping people alive would be impossible.

“Everyone, up to the second floor,” she boomed, pointing at the elevators and staircases. “Stay away from all the windows, and by God, don’t do anything stupid like run outside or steal my property.”

****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 36

Title: New Life

Chapter 35: New Life

*We always find a way.*

Logan grunted while he fiddled with the wires. A wrong connection sparked enough electricity to jolt him, prompting his fist to smash into the offending device. “Sonovabitch!”

*Don’t talk. Just think. Talking takes up oxygen we don’t have.*

*Sonovabitch!* he mentally repeated.

After poking at the machine, Jean shrugged at him. *I think that was the climate control unit.*

*Hmph. Could’ve used that.*

Indeed they could’ve. Trapped in the bowels of Asteroid M, the two explored every avenue of escape but came up empty. The shell, the supposed Weapons Plus station, floated away long ago and left the rocky formation to drift toward the sun. Unprotected, the harsh rays would eat up the asteroid and their lives.

No propulsion. No life support. No escape. The overbearing heat and stale air weighed on their hopes and bodies. They worked, but each passing moment made them more desperate. Logan peeled the remains of his uniform away; Jean stripped to her bra.

*Got a question for ya, Red.*

Muscles weakened and head foggy, Jean sat herself down and motioned for her friend to ask away.

*I know ya got the Phoenix in ya. I know everyone back at the flamin’ mansion’s pissin’ their pants cuz they think you’re going to kill the universe. I’m just wonderin’ why you ain’t ridin’ the Phoenix Airways n’ flying us outta here.*

*The Phoenix doesn’t work that way.*

*Then how does it work?*

Memories wheeled themselves into Jean’s consciousness and she struggled to make them coherent. *Ever since I was thirteen, I found out I could control matter. I started lifting pencils and socks, but with the Professor’s help, I did much more. Now, with the Phoenix, I’m learning to control molecules and atoms, the very fabric of existence.*

*You could be all powerful,* he said. *You could make worlds and set right what’s wrong.*

*The Phoenix doesn’t create--it destroys. It... it judges and burns away what shouldn’t be there. It talks to me, tells me things, but if I get too close, it replaces me.* She buried her head in her sweaty arms. *Ask Betsy. She’s felt the Phoenix before.*

*Sure, I’ll ask Betts once you fly us outta here.*

*Logan, I can’t fly, not the way you’re thinking of it. The Phoenix might be part of me, but I still need water and air. I said I could manipulate molecules, but space is an empty vacuum. I can’t manipulate nothing.*

Suddenly, another explosion shook Asteroid M and threw a standing Logan into the control panel he’d slashed earlier. Not hurt but mighty frustrated, the man roared at the broken technology and wailed on it again, pounding the metal and circuit boards till his knuckles revealed shiny adamantium. It stuttered pitifully before giving up and shutting down.

A final boot expelled the last of his wrath. *There’s gotta be a way out. I’ll make one if I have to.*

While Wolverine raged, Jean stared off into the distance, what little clothes clinging to her toned body and thoroughly soaked. All kinds of thoughts flashed through her mind and she voiced one of them. *The Professor was so terrified earlier when he screamed about traitors. Maybe Magneto had something to do with it?*

*Probably,* snorted Logan, *Somebody’s been undermining us at the school. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it then, but y’know how hindsight is. I dunno, might as well put the blame on him, right?*

Silence.

*Jean?*

The red head sat still.

“Jeanie?”

With a confused shudder, her attention returned. *Sorry. I suddenly got this craving for a triple fudge banana split with walnuts, sprinkles, and gummy bears.*

*Gummy bears?*

*What’s wrong with gummy bears?*

*Nothin’. Myself, I like ‘em with an ice cold beer straight from the tap.*

*Everything tastes better with beer.*

*Damn straight it does.*

Too exhausted, Jean stretched onto the floor. *And what were you saying before I zoned out?*

*I smelled trouble back at the mansion. Been wonderin’ why so many of us were at each other’s necks in recent weeks. Now that we’re stuck in a deathtrap that looks a flamin’ lot like Magneto’s old house, I gotta blame him fer our troubles.* He laughed bitterly. *Or maybe I’m just going nuts. Maybe Magneto’s got nothin’ to do with anything n’ the prize goes to Tessa or Xorn or Gumbo or Pryde. I don’t know nothin’ anymore.*

A chill embraced her. Goosebumps popped up on her arms. Her brain said hot but her body said cold. *I’ve stopped sweating. That’s bad, isn’t it?*

*S’ok,* he said, padding over to where she lay, *As long as you stay awake, yer fine.*

He didn’t cradle her--that was Summer’s job. His job as a friend was to comfort, not touch. Jean didn’t make it easy being so weak and vulnerable, but Logan firmly believed in the sanctity of marriage, enough to edge away in these trying times. Sure, he’d crossed the line before, but he always stopped whenever he could.

For now, he could help it. He wished he couldn’t but he did.

*Don’t give up now, Red. The others are probably bangin’ down the doors. ‘sides, you said the Phoenix judges things. How can it let you die before it’s even finished judging our stinkin’ planet?*

*Maybe it’s finished judging and this is our fate.*

*Bullshit! When there’s a will, there’s a flamin’ way! I spent six months under glacier by eatin’ strips of me off my own arm. There’s always a way, Jeanie! Ya can’t quit on me like this!*

And Jean grinned at Logan’s knightly words. *You’re going to fight the sun for me, Logan?*

To hell with crossing the line--he pulled Jean close and brushed away the hairs covering her face. *I ain’t a good man. I kill humans and mutants, don’t matter much after shedding so much blood. I ain’t the one who should be fightin’ for your honor.* He shut his eyes. *I ain’t good enough to do that.*

A trembling hand cupped his chin. Her mental voice softened. *Now who’s b... b... b... bullshitting?* she asked. *You... you’re a great man. Doesn’t matter what you did... how you got here... I’ve seen what you did to be great.*

Somewhere in the cavernous base, metal crashed against metal, another part of the asteroid falling apart. Jean’s eyes widened. *Scott? Is that you?*

What could he say? No? *Scott n’ Hank are gonna be here soon.*

Her cold, clammy skin suddenly became hot coals. *Burning,* she moaned, worming about in his arms, *The Phoenix is here and it’s burning... judging... disinfecting. It doesn’t like what it sees...*

God, she was hallucinating. She needed to stay awake to fight away her demons. *It’s ok, Jean. Let it out, just don’t let it pull you in.*

*No! It’s burning! The voices are telling me to fall away! Blood... so much blood spilled, all the sacrifice... it’s not ENOUGH!*

He pressed his lips against her dry forehead. He didn’t even pretend that everything was ok.

Green eyes dilated and froze open. *Rachel. RACHEL! No! I... not now, I can’t. I need more time. Shut up! I said I need more time!*

A spasm gripped her and wouldn’t let go. Logan loosened his arms to let her move as she pleased. She looked like a person battling ghosts, and with the crap that she’d been through, it probably wasn’t far from the truth. Her red hair toss and turned, the last beads of sweat flung from her.

As suddenly as when she started, she stopped. The madness left her. “Logan,” her throat rasped out, “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” he replied, “I’m right beside you.”

*The Phoenix is calling to me. This is it. This is the end. Please, don’t leave.*

“Gonna stay here.”

Her whole body tensed. She coughed to chase away the nausea and unrelenting discomfort. *Don’t leave, it hurts so much.*

“I’m here, Jeanie, and I will be here fer an eternity if ya need me.”

*Good... just... good....* She almost relaxed but another shot of pain rippled through her, making her wriggle and toss and turn, albeit weakly.

Logan held her tight, as if keeping her close could keep her forever. *I’d die to save you.*

The words barely registered. *Don’t Logan... don’t...*

* I can’t make your pain my own.*

Tears fell onto her face. *It wants me... it won’t give up...*

*I’m useless, and no, I’m not a good man. I’m not good enough to love you. I’m not good enough to save us. I’m sorry.*

Nothing made sense anymore. Her soul told her things her mind couldn’t decipher. She called out to the people who loved her. *Scott? Rachel? Nathan?* In a quieter voice, *Logan?*

*I’m right here, Red, and I can only take the pain away.*

Snikt.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 37

Title: Secondary Characters, Part 1

Chapter 36: Secondary Characters, Part 1

Not every mutant rebelled like anarchists. Not every human ran like chickens with their heads cut off. And while society did lean toward a strained cross species relationship, a good handful of beings did get along.

Even mutants had families and friends.

Take Marissa Ackerman for instance. Marissa was the twenty four year old, nine month pregnant wife of one Jack Ackerman. Marissa herself? Human. Her husband? Mutant. Despite the difference, the two adored each other, the gene discrepancy doing nothing to dampen their affections. Jack worked as an accountant at Frost Enterprises. Marissa, till her pregnancy, was an interior designer of no small fame. They shared a modest (and expensive) downtown apartment and kept to themselves, content to live out their dreams without worldly interference. Neighbors called them the perfect couple; colleagues envied their strong relationship.

Too bad the fairy tale ended tonight.

Halfway through her sleep, an odd hunger struck Marissa. Many mothers could attest to the sudden, and often outrageous, cravings for a peculiar food. Many fathers could attest to rolling out of bed late at night and fulfilling these cravings whether they be chocolate jelly beans, fried bananas, nacho cheese lathered hotdogs, or, in the case of Marissa, a seven layer burrito with extra sour cream. Being the dutiful husband, Jack slipped on his shoes, kissed his wife, and went around the corner to a twenty-four seven fast food joint.

For some odd reason the line was incredibly long, so long Marissa called his cell phone... twice, both times wondering where her burrito was. By the time his turn rolled around, Jack, hungry himself, tacked on two tacos to the order.

In hindsight, the tacos killed him.

Police sirens streaked by. The televisions started talking about a crashed plane in the New York Bay. Absorbed by the gripping news, the restaurateurs slowed their production of fine Mexican cuisine, not that Jack or his fellow customers minded since they too stood transfixed. They were wrapping up Jack’s tacos when livid mutants kicked the door down.

One of them, a young man who claimed to have been fired for his appearance (horn-like bulges in his forehead and scaly skin) angrily yelled at the owner of the establishment. The customers tried to leave, but the gang had none of it and attacked people with no remorse. Always a peacemaker, Jack stepped in to quell the disturbance.

The angry young man pulled out a gun and shot the meddlesome “flatscan” in the head.

No, Jack’s mutation wasn’t apparent: his forearm and calves had decent sized fins on them, good for swimming but a nuisance any other time. He hid the fleshy extensions as best he could, and tonight, he hid them too well. He died before he hit the ground.

His cell phone rang again but no one picked up.

Meanwhile, back at home, Marissa nervously watched the television talk about a mutant uprising in downtown Manhattan. A plane plunged itself into the Upper Bay. Some strange weather front appeared over Battery Park. Jack wasn’t answering his phone.

Jack wasn’t answering his phone!

Marissa threw on a jacket and waddled to the streets.

Outside, chaos reigned. Stampeding feet, piercing screams, and cries for help deafened her. People ran in all directions, occasional glimpses of vengeful mutants causing pockets of terror. Marissa waded in the Mexican restaurant’s direction when her water broke. A forceful shove from a passerby knocked her into a small, abandoned convenience store. She considered braving the crowds again, but her maternal instincts wouldn’t let her.

She tried Jack’s cell phone again. No answer. Voicemail only.

Fear for herself and their unborn child consumed her. No way could she get to a hospital now. No way could an ambulance get to her. No way she was going to let these violence mutants harm her.

Out of options, Marissa pushed a small ice cream freezer in front of the door. Wasn’t much, but at least it presented an obstacle for potential intruders. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead showed too much of the store’s interior, enough for the perceptive to see Marissa wherever she hid. She hunted for the light switches but found the fuse box instead.

It would have to do.

Some flicks of the wrist later, the entire store darkened. Tiredly, the woman stumbled to the back where the fridge displayed beer, sodas, and ice. She could feel her child coming. She’d need water to keep herself hydrated and probably ice chips to gnaw on, or at least, that’s what the instructor said at the Lamaze class.

Whatever happened, she wouldn’t fail her child. Her back ached, her heart raced, and she had no idea what happened to Jack, but she wouldn’t fail her child.

She dialed Jack’s number again. Voicemail again.

“You’ve reached Jack Ackerman. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Marissa stifled her sobs. “Jack, where are you? I need you, Jack...”

*****************

Too much power drove people insane: Lorna Dane was a perfect example. Between the regular doses of Kick and her secondary mutation, her mind splintered apart into incoherent slivers. Negative emotions, first at the mansion, now in the city, mingled with her body and simulated dangerous levels of adrenaline. Her cells fed from the hormone and worked overtime, processing it in ways a normal body couldn’t. Her bones increased in mass. Her muscles tetanized. Her skin renewed itself. She became stronger and faster, her physical abilities pushed beyond even the most impressive of mutants.

And the ability sustained itself. Lorna’s body hungered for more power and the hunger changed her mind. She became a battery store for negative emotions, and when she was fully charged, the excess bled off into the world to breed more negativity. Kick sped the process, increased her already massive energy capacity, and projected more excess angst and anger.

The more others fought, the more power she gained. The more power she gained, the more she made people fight. The more people fought, the more her mind fractured. The more her mind fractured, the less she cared about the consequences of her power.

Lorna stopped caring two months ago when she took her first hit of Kick.

Lorna was ecstatic when she stopped caring. Jean and Scott’s diabetes inducing marriage didn’t bother her. Alex rejecting her sexual advances didn’t wound her self-esteem. Everyone at the mansion just seemed so pleasant to be around when one ignored the tension and drama. Everything at the mansion just seemed so interesting when people were ready to pounce on each other.

Then Papa came and made life better. Said he didn’t die in Genosha; said he had a plan to use her newfound power. Help Papa and use power? How could she say no? That, and Papa had some good Kick. Not as good as the stuff that came in those mysterious packages, but good.

A long, circuitous route followed, and the end result landed her here on the Empire State Building holding a magnetic shield around the roof as Papa waited for their fellow mutants to gather around. Boring stuff, but the negative emotions swamped her by the second, so that made Lorna happy. Actually, much of the negative emotions came off of one source.

Let’s see: Bishop, Alex, Paige, and Charles were unconscious. Fantomex and Bobby talked while Esme watched Tessa lean against the railing, not a care in the world. Papa, with the ever present Toad, observed his people destroy the humans.

“Ororo,” said Lorna as she walked to the collared and restrained woman, “You’re very hostile.”

“You sicken me.”

Wow. No preamble, build up, or pretense of confusion--Lorna liked the no nonsense rage. She liked it so much she laughed. Weren’t the X-Men so much more enjoyable when livid?

In contrast, Storm didn’t find anything to laugh about as she chaffed against her icy shackles.

Lorna thought the effort cute. “Awww, Stormy wanna play?”

A kick shattered the ice. A mere thought and metal pipes strapping down her limbs straightened, freeing a powerless but angry Ororo. She might’ve been unarmed, but how many people had underestimated her resourcefulness and fighting ability? Too many to count, and Lorna looked to be among those. Mattered little she was a friend: anyone who attacked her team, her family, automatically labeled themselves enemies.

Instinct guided Storm. She palmed a sharp shard of ice and stabbed it into Lorna’s temple. Bobby saw the incident and tried to act, but Fantomex drew his gun, stopping any thoughts of rebellion. Magneto, Toad, and Tessa seemed unconcerned, each absorbed in their own musings and activities. Esme yelled a warning to Lorna.

Flesh should’ve given way under Storm’s attack. Blood should’ve squirted out. Neither happened: the improvised shiv powdered like it hit a brick wall. Smiling, Lorna rammed her fist into Storm’s gut, collapsing her in one blow. On the ground, Ororo gasped and wretched, her insides burning from oxygen deprivation. Lorna pulled two steel bars out of the Empire State Building and wrapped them around her prisoner, rebinding her arms to her sides and fastening her legs together. Using the metal as fulcrums for her magnetic powers, she stood Storm up.

“Fair is fair,” Lorna giggled, “You hit me, I hit you. Do you want to play again?”

Lorna was nuts. Somewhere in the back of the churning pain, Ororo knew Lorna was crazy. The steady, reliable Polaris no longer resided behind those eyes, killed by this imposter, this enemy. The damned collar around her neck became a source of never-ending frustration and hate. Mattered not where or how Magneto got these collars, how he so thoroughly ambushed the X-Men, or why he wanted to start his revolution here, Ororo would kill them.

No one preyed on her like this. No one.

And what about Tessa? She was free, but she did nothing. At least Bobby tried to help, but Tessa dispassionately stood to the side. She observed, or maybe she plotted, or maybe she hid--no one could ever tell when she assume her coldest demeanor. Was... was that a smile on her face?

Strong fingers closed around Storm’s neck, not enough to choke but enough to menace. “You’re no fun, Ororo. Where’s the leader of the X-Men? Where’s the bitch behind the broad? I always thought you were a lioness, but right now, you’re a kitty cat.”

The fingers squeezed and whatever retort Storm had sunk. She tried to kick her feet and move her hands but the metal bars held tight. Air, precious air escaped her. The world darkened, blotches wiping out her vision. No, this couldn’t be the end. She refused to lie down like a broken animal. Anger and desperation gave her one last gasp. She moved so much the grip loosened, but before she breathed a full breath, the grip closed again, its force redoubled. The collar pressed into her skin and drew blood.

Ororo’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as the darkness took over.

“My daughter,” declared Magneto, spreading his arms out, “Our army arrives.”

Below, hundreds of mutants, with more pouring in by the second, clamored for their saviors. Lorna let go and levitated Storm, her trophy, over the side of the building so all could see. Rain fell from the suddenly darkened sky, but no downpour could extinguish the flames of rebellion. Lorna smiled and took a hit. Her senses expanded and engulfed the nameless faces, feeding on them and their darkest impulses.

Life was good.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 38

Title: Crazy Talk

Chapter 37: Crazy Talk

Life was bad.

Mystique smelled smoke from miles away. It was the first sign of trouble, but she kept her mouth shut--Rogue didn’t need any more distractions. When red lightning struck the Big Apple, she knew she’d gotten herself into another train wreck of a mess. Bad enough Magneto captured Xavier and company, bad enough Rogue flew at top speed to reclaim her Cajun, bad enough the wind chill froze Mystique’s very core, bad enough, but now, the closer the mother and daughter tandem got to Manhattan, the more traffic jams and random acts of violence came into view.

“Ah never seen people panic like this...”

“They’re humans. They’re stupid.”

A mutant with overgrown arms leapt onto the Long Island Expressway and tried to wallop oncoming cars. He’d overestimated his strength, however, and a speeding Escalade launched him kicking and screaming onto the shoulder. The mutant tumbled into a ditch, out of sight, out of mind.

Rogue glanced at her mother who cut her off.

“Not a word, Rogue.”

“Ah didn’t say nothin’.”

“You just did.”

Manhattan proper appeared underneath, and humans lessened, the streets taken over by mutants. Pockets of SWAT teams and patrolmen did their best to stem the pandemonium, but nothing went their way. From being overmatched to outnumbered to outgunned, any semblance of law got routed by mutants. Further into the city, gunfire couldn’t even be heard anymore. Screams, explosions, and celebratory chants became the prominent sounds. The only humans about were fleeing or dying.

Mystique smiled. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all: those insignificant homo sapiens got what was coming to them.

Rogue didn’t share those sentiments. “Mama, this ain’t no time ta laugh!”

“You want me to cry for seeing our people finally fighting back?”

Another gulf between the two stuck its head up. Years spent living under Xavier’s reign opened the road of mutant-human coexistence to Rogue. A better future lay in peace and acceptance, not bitter fighting and genocide. As the Professor said once, civilizations born from the blood of others were doomed to their predecessors’ fate. On the other hand, Mystique believed in battling for a better tomorrow. Might was the only language humans understood, and until mutants showed their awesome might, their inferiors would forever torment them. Peace and happiness weren’t free: they had to be earned, many times through bloodshed.

Mystique disliked Magneto for his hubris, but she agreed with his methodology. And Rogue?

“Ma Gawd, Magneto n’ Lorna’s on top o’ that skyscraper n’ they have Storm!”

Not so much. She almost changed directions and flew into a new ruckus, but Mystique stopped her. “Your Cajun,” she reminded, pointing to an incredibly active but darkened North Cove, “Get out of the sky before Magneto sees us!”

Ororo... Remy... Ororo.... Remy...

“Rogue! Snap out of it!”

Her mentor, her friend, her leader versus the man she loved--what kind of choice was this? Ororo looked battered; Remy just finished a sparring match with Vargas and had to be beat up. Rogue loved both these people, but there was only one of her. Sirens and alarms covered his voice, but Rogue assumed Magneto’s gesturing meant he was about to make an example of Storm. All those frenzied mutants marching through the streets couldn’t be peaceful protestors.

Actually, the calls to “Finish her” pretty much grouped most of them into the angry mob category. “Mama, ah need ya ta find Remy fo’ me.”

After hovering the air for so long, one brunette and her blue mother drew the stares of many. Only fact which kept them unharmed was their very obvious “mutantness.” One particularly brave flier--a pretty black haired woman with hornet’s wings--buzzed up to the deep in thought brunette.

Her gleeful smile and sunny disposition served as a counterpoint to the surrounding destruction. She asked in a helpful tone, “Looking for someone?”

Well, she did seem nice enough. “Ah’m lookin’ for a man, got red pupils and always wearin’ a trench coat. Ya seen him?”

The woman giggled. “Sorry,” she shook her head, “that could be anyone down there. I’ll tell my friends to keep a look out for him though. He your boyfriend or something?”

“Yeah.”

A raking gaze, which could only be described as a visual undressing, startled Rogue. Sighing, the woman smacked her lips and looked disappointed. “Too bad.”

Time for a topic change. “Thank fo’ lookin’ n’ all.”

“No problem,” said the woman, recovering nicely, “We mutants have to look out for each other. Anyway, you going over to Magneto? Says he’s got a plan AND he’s going to execute an X-Man. Bunch of us got up to the front. Gonna be fun!”

Fun? “How can a execution be fun?! That’s someone’s life yer havin’ fun with!”

A store of revulsion built up in the woman, her jovial attitude disappearing like a drop of water in the desert. “I have no sympathy for human lovers,” she bristled, “If the X-Men are against our freedom, then they can die with the rest of these flatscans!”

Mystique wanted to calm her daughter, but Rogue’s fist moved too fast. With a thunderous boom, the winged woman plummeted to the pavement below. Plenty heated stares attached themselves onto the brunette, but Rogue seethed too much to care.

A familiar annoyance welled up in Mystique. Maybe her daughter needed a good smacking to wise up. She almost acted on her impulse too, but her keen perception halted her. An annoyance... an unreasonable, familiar annoyance... sure, she was reasonably ticked off right now, but not to the point of losing her cool. Mystique never lost her cool, but in one night, she found her easy calm a difficult thing to hold on to. This happened at the mansion, disappeared, then happened again here.

The common link? Magneto.

He invaded the mansion earlier, and when he left, the annoyance subsided. She and Rogue entered Manhattan, and low and behold, the feeling returned. Magneto was too much a plotter for this to be a coincidence. Mystique’s instincts just pointed at his involvement, and if one thing Mystique trusted, it was her instincts.

Having a hunch of the cause made fighting the mental suggestion much easier.

“Hang on, Mama. Find Remy n’ ah rescue ‘Ro.”

Speeding like a bullet, Rogue deposited Mystique near North Cove and rocketed back into the air to face Magneto. Stubborn girl, her body moved quicker than her brain, and sooner or later, her body would cash a check her brain didn’t write. She loved her daughter, but that girl... never knew what she’d do next sometimes, even in the face of extreme danger.

Especially in the face of extreme danger.

Since yelling for her to come back was a moot point now, Mystique resigned herself to the task of playing fetch. If this was anyone else besides Rogue, she would’ve told the person to shove it and look for their own damned boy toy. Why even look for him? What was wrong with someone less complicated, like that pretty girl who just got pasted? Why this card throwing Cajun? What was so special about him? Men like that were a dime a dozen in New Orleans.

Not so much the card throwing part, but everything else wasn’t hard to come by.

“Gah, kids these days...”

Love. Can’t explain it, can’t stop it.

A wet jumble struck a tree to her left and pulled her out of her musing. Up ahead, a single man massacred a host of monsters straight out of a Clive Barker novel. Didn’t notice it before, but a swirling cloud of red loomed not far away, sparking and growing like a fetid sore. More monsters fell, cut into ribbons by a sword and the body swinging it. Basking in the pale moonlight and wrapped by shadows, the lone warrior conjured visions of death as he moved with frightening grace and deadly efficiency. Not even the quickest of the beasts got close. Not even the strongest of them stood up to his blows.

Mystique recognized that silhouette.

Finishing off the last of his opposition, Vargas plunged his sword into the soft grass and tightened his gloves. “Destiny’s champion,” he greeted. “Your presence is unanticipated but welcomed.”

Oh hell, not this nut job. Wasn’t he suppose to be in New Orleans? Well, if the Cajun could get from there to here in two blinks of an eye, guess Vargas could too, but just... just...

“Shit.”

Vargas was a nut job, pure and simple. He followed Irene’s predictions religiously, calling her a herald of mutantkind’s true fate. Ever the resourceful one, Irene obliged him, using him like a burlap sack on a twenty acre farm. Neither she nor Mystique trusted (or even liked) him, but a nigh destructible brute who fancied himself a scholar had his uses.

Unfortunately, he considered mutants an aberration and that the homo sapiens superior--those humans who’d reached their full potential--would do away with “Nature’s mistake.” Apparently, Irene’s diaries fit into his twisted worldview about human domination, so in his eyes, she was about the only ok mutant. How a man who took down a building with his sword considered a human Mystique had no clue, but in her estimation, anyone strong enough to accomplish the feat could claim to anything and none would protest. Didn’t might make right?

Whatever the case, Mystique didn’t like Vargas, didn’t want to use him, didn’t want to have anything to do with him, didn’t want Irene to manipulate him, didn’t want Rogue to even know him.

“Destiny,” he mumbled, pulling his sword from the ground, “My Destiny eluded me. My death was to be my glory and my gift to humanity, but Destiny’s daughter wouldn’t see to my fulfillment. I will find the one who took my fate away and inflict an eternity’s pain upon her.”

Yup, nut job. He went beyond nutcase and firmly wedged himself in the nut job category. Any other person would be glad to have their life, but no, not Vargas, not by a long shot. He obsessed himself with fate and destiny and the rise of a hitherto unheard of homo sapiens superior. Did any other human come out of the woodwork and start smashing things to smithereens? No, at least not the way Vargas smashed things.

God, and the worst part of all this? Mystique was stuck with him.

The man wearily tested his sword and cast his eyes toward the blue skinned woman. “Since Destiny was the one who ultimately betrayed me, my revenge will extend to her chosen.”

Life was bad and on a crash course to unbearable. Damn it, the shit she went through for her daughter.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 39

Title: The Explosion

Chapter 38: The Explosion

“Where did you get this?”

“Betts’ room.”

Scratching her head, Kitty magnified the image. “There’s body oils on the strap and there should be fingerprints.”

The computer cursor ran over the darkened blotches, the pattern indicative of a person’s hand. The brunette circled the obvious fingertips and frowned. “Where we should have something, we don’t have anything. The nearest I can tell, this looks like someone very selectively smudged the fingerprints.”

Her frown intensified. “But I don’t see any signs of the oils smearing.”

Not twenty minutes ago they hauled Scott down here, and immediately big blue went to work like he never left. Kitty helped out wherever she could, passing him instruments and adjusting the many Shi’ar devices. When Hank and Kitty had everything under control, Jubilee mentioned her discovery and zoom went the brunette, running the cloth through batteries of tests and coming up with nothing.

From her spot lying on the lab table, Jubilee contributed her two cents to the mystery by noisily chewing on her gum.

“Hank?” asked Kitty, “Any bright ideas?”

The Beast grunted to himself as he positioned a robot medlab assistant to suture Scott’s wounds. “Perhaps the blast in Elisabeth’s room contaminated Jubilee’s hard sought evidence?”

“No, if anything, the explosive materials would’ve clung to the oils and made the fingerprint easier to read.”

“Stranger things have happened, my dear. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“It’s just... I know I can figure this out! It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

Pop went a Bubblicious bubble. “Can I say somethin’?”

Kitty turned to Jubilee and raised an eyebrow.

“I saw this movie once.” The conscious occupants of the medlab squinted at her, their expressions dubious at best. Jubilee, however, noticed none of it. “Real lame, had Dolph Lundgren in it, but yeah, the point is, one guy was about to get caught by the cops. He didn’t want them pulling up his rap sheet so he took a razor to his fingers and went freakin’ Gillette on them!” The girl paused to dramatically simulate someone mangling their own fingertips.

“Since the cops couldn’t ID him, they stuck him in a minimum security cell and he broke out in like five seconds! And like... like...”

“Go on,” urged Kitty, intrigued. Even Hank’s ears perked up.

“Well, I’m just sayin’, if you’re dealin’ with a shady character, he can do tons of far out things to throw you off. On tonight’s menu, only one person fits the bill and that’s the dude Wolvie was all going cra-”

“Fantomex,” Scott moaned, startling everyone. The IV and status monitors clanked to the hard ground when he rolled about, tubes and wires tangling him up. With Hank’s help, he freed himself from the medicinal forest and tested out his still painful arm. Wondrous alien technology patched him up well, but even the best of medicine didn’t work miracles. He’d have to lay off on his left side for the next few days.

Ha, like that was happening.

Both Kitty and Hank shrugged at each other, silently asking “Fantomex? What does Fantomex have to do with anything? Again?”

The fearless leader of the X-Men read the gestures and filled in the blanks “You were all at Harry’s when he stopped in for sanctuary. He had a sports bag on his shoulder, same color at the strap there.”

The painkillers dulled him a hair, his speech and movements lacking. Though he took pleasure in unraveling mysteries, a piece of nagging news fluttered in his mind. “Asteroid M,” he whispered, the last moments of his consciousness returning, “Magneto... this is all Magneto’s work!”

“Yeah,” Jubilee drawled, “About that. You see, we already kinda got the Magneto being back part. He sorta took off the mansion’s roof.”

The heart monitor still attached to him jumped twenty beats per minutes. “Where is the team? Why aren’t you going after him?”

“Hold on, turbo. Right now, we’re the only ones here. Elf boy and Hayseed senior are drivin’ to Warren’s to drop off the students. Everyone is either AWOL or captured by Magneto, which reminds me, where’s Wolvie?”

“Jean was looking for him when I left,” said Kitty, “I needed to return with Scott and make sure he got medical attention.”

Like he’d never left, Hank motioned for Cyclops to lay back down. “Doctor’s orders, Mr. Summers. With that concussion and mended bone, you’re not fit to leave on another escapade.”

“There’s no choice, Hank!”

“Yes there is, Scott. Trust that Kurt and Sam will not fail.”

The medlab elevator dinged, drawing four sets of eyes to it. Out came a grimacing Forge, blaster in hand and arm around his stomach. Kitty was there before he collapsed.

“Rogue,” he wheezed, “Mystique... overloaded Cerebra... destroyed... went to Manhattan.”

With all the shit that already hit the fan, the four here extrapolated much from those broken words.

Of course, assumptions were made. Everyone piled into the Mark 3.

*****************

“Look around you, old man.”

Groggily, the Professor moaned and opened his eyes.

“Look, damn it.”

The quiet voice belonged to Tessa but he couldn’t crane his neck around to see her. “Wh-”

“Quiet. I said look.”

The dreamy mist dissipated and returned his focus a bit at a time. Smelled smoke. Felt cold. Saw darkness. Heard unintelligible cries. Sensed nothing. “Where am I?”

“Your hell.”

Vision cleared. Magnus hovered over a ledge while he shouted his old idioms. A familiar swirling red light broke the dark monotony. The repeated unintelligible cries sharpened into calls for mutant supremacy.

“Your dream is about to be reduced to nothing,” spat Tessa, “I just wanted you to know before the fact.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate you. I hate how you took my life and made it yours. I hate your two-faced methods and your cover of benevolence. This is my revenge.”

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat. To his sides, Paige and Alex remained unconscious. “Why didn’t you tell me, Tessa? I could’ve-”

“You could have done many things, but you did not. You did what you did and I will do what I will do. If I could just kill you now and have my revenge, I would do so, but I cannot, not while your dream still persists. I have to exterminate all that is you, and to do so, I must strike at your X-Men, your institution, and your species.

“Sit back, Professor. Experience the symphony I have concocted for you, one inspired by my ruined existence and made possible by your lessons. Look, the first movement comes to an end and the second begins with a bang...”

*****************

Five fighter jets, deployed by a supposed S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, streaked toward Manhattan. Their arsenal: a heap of the newest, laser guided bombs specifically designed to combat the Master of Magnetism. Their order: annihilate the mutant uprising at whatever cost.

*****************

Storm, bound and battered, felt her power return--Lorna’s vicious choking earlier had damaged the collar.

*****************

Gambit, riding a newly acquired sports bike, flung a charged card into a wall and barreled through the hole, bypassing crowds and traffic and straight into the Empire State Building.

*****************

Warren and Sam left Kurt with the students and flew toward Magneto.

*****************

Rachel and X’ian screamed as one into the night sky, but no one heeded their call.

*****************

Esme peeked down at the crowds and felt the awesome power and prestige surge through her. Her grip around her lethal vial of Kick tightened.

*****************

Yvette, mini dv recorder in hand, ducked into a dark alley and filmed the budding drama, all the while hoping for a glimpse of her handsome stranger.

*****************

Vargas clipped Mystique in the side with his sword, but before he could strike the killing blow, demons jumped onto his back.

*****************

Humans found themselves corralled into mutant controlled buildings, there to await cruel torture games and senseless executions.

*****************

Rogue threw herself against Magneto’s force field.

*****************

Mutants all around Manhattan cheered and slaughtered, cries of “Remember Genosha!” filling the streets. For a moment, they were free and no consequences held them down.

*****************

The last remaining Mark 3 lost navigation systems and plowed onto Canal Street.

*****************

Logan, carrying Jean’s body, opened the airlock facing the sun. “He and she,” he murmured, “He and she in a blaze of glory.”

*****************

The Stepford sisters tried to contact their missing sibling but to no avail.

*****************

Demons burst forth from Battery Park and challenged frenzied mutants.

*****************

Marissa strained, her contractions growing stronger by the minute.

*****************

Lorna laughed and shot up. Her heart raced toward unacceptable speeds, but the negative emotions reached an ecstatic height.

*****************

Bobby tried to escape but a loud crack filled the air, smashing an impressive hole through his icy chest. He gaped at Fantomex before tethering over the Empire State Building’s railing.

*****************

The Otherworld contingent--Doctor Strange, Magik, Brian, and Meggan--appeared before a meditating Betsy and tackled her.

****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 40

Title: That Fishy Smell

Chapter 39: That Fishy Smell

Emma rummaged through her office drawer. Behind the quarterly reports and in front of the catalogs lay her pistol. Never could tell when a firearm would be useful, and given how Manhattan turned into slaughter fest, she needed every advantage. Sooner or later, one of the many hazards would meander their way into her skyscraper and things would get physical. Belasco and Magneto--quite a tandem to deal with. Made her wish for simpler times, like when her greatest threat was another one of Jubilee’s childish pranks.

Suddenly, a ginormous boom shook the ground, tipping over expensive desk ornaments, a bottle of vodka, and a curious polar bear plush doll named Frosty Bear which made its cozy home at the top of a bookcase.

Emma peeled the blinds open in time to see high speed Sam Guthrie toss one of Belasco’s winged denomnesses into her office. What a naughty boy! The senior Guthrie didn’t even have the manners to stop, instead jetting on his way like nothing happened. Off in the distance, a blur which resembled Rogue collided into a building across from the Empire State Building, across from Magneto and... and... Storm?

Back to matter at hand: a well-endowed female projectile. Wide-eyed, Emma dove under her desk seconds before the thing smashed through the reinforced windows. An ominous crash, followed by an equally ominous swishing of water, signaled the grim end of Emma’s beloved aquarium. Peeking out from under her cover, the blonde observed the resilient demon--sopping wet, glass fragments puncturing her flesh, fish floundering under her weight, and blood just gushing everywhere--pick herself up and menacingly growl.

She stopped, sniffed the air, and hissed at the blonde. “You... you have the stench of Master’s wayward flayer about you...”

“And you broke my aquarium.”

Two nine millimeter bullets lodged themselves in the its eyes.

“No one fucks with the fish.”

Another shot struck its forehead before it fell over dead. Walking to the shards of her pride and joy, Emma sighed and tucked away her pistol.

“Poor babies,” she cooed at her floundering pets. Carefully, she cupped two of the survivors, rushed to the bar, and put them in a mug of water. “Stay,” she commanded.

Not a moment later, shrieks filled the air, drawn to this place by the scent of a fallen sister. Only the most powerful psychic suggestion could ward off--one, two, four, twelve, fuck it, stopped counting after twenty--sentient monsters.

*Betsy?*

An unexpected, harried yelp surprised the blonde. *Help!*

Brief glimpses of Betsy being attacked and smothered appeared in Emma’s mind. Out the door she went and into the fire escape. With little regard for life or limb, Emma jumped over the railing and free fell seventy stories. About halfway down, her skin acquired the diamond glimmer. On landing, she caved in the cement under her. Dust ploomed around her in the shape of a mushroom.

“Well,” she mumbled to herself, “That was certainly an exercise in stupidity.”

Even diamond could break. Didn’t need to find out the limits of her body now. What in the world possessed her to drop everything, ignore the impending danger, and plunge down here like this? Granted the jump looked and felt cool, but it was hardly constructive. The express elevators would’ve gotten her downstairs in no time and it’s not like Betsy was helpless. Doing this shaved seconds off her decent time and cut off Betsy from mental contact--not smart.

Probably could’ve exacerbated the situation.

What’s done was done. Emma hurried out the fire escape door and prepared for the worst. What she got looked more like a family reunion.

Brian had his sister in a headlock. Meggan helped her husband by holding Betsy’s legs in place. Strange and Amanda chanted some mystical incantation. Meanwhile, Betsy tried to say something but her brother’s thick arm muted her.

“Ahem.”

The action stopped. All eyes settled on Emma.

“Why are you groping Elisabeth?”

“She’s the one who brought Belasco here!” struggled Brian.

Betsy’s eyes swelled, indignation quite clear unlike her words. “Mrrm hmph vrrm, grckr!”

“Where’s the pendant?!” Amanda yelled, stopping her magic mumbo jumbo.

“Rver gwrr zo phem!”

“I assure everyone in this room, neither Elisabeth nor myself have any idea what pendant you’re talking about.”

Doctor Strange ended his chanting. “Ms. Frost tells the truth. I sense none of the large expenditure of power it would take to operate the pendant.”

Looking down at his sister, Brian broke into a cold sweat. “Bloody hell.” Betsy was going to wallop him good for this one.

Got his wish sooner than later.

Even though he still grappled Betsy, Meggan, after hearing the analysis, let go. Her legs freed, Betsy thwacked her brother with the tip of her foot. The pain doubled when she bit down, enough to leave a mark but not quite enough to draw blood. Reacting, Brian pulled on Betsy’s hair with his free hand and tried to wrestle his chew toy of an arm away.

The scrap would’ve been comical if a tinge of maliciousness didn’t taint it.

Of all people, Emma was the one to break up the twins. “Elisabeth,” she chided while pulling the two apart, “it was a misunderstanding.”

Demonic eyes flared. “Next time someone assaults you, let’s see how calm you’re going to be!”

Those words, uttered not long ago during a similar circumstance with reversed roles--Emma remembered them well. Wrapped in the unfeeling, logical world of her secondary mutation, the blonde found the comment inappropriate, rash, and unconstructive. In fact, the rashness measured on the magnitude of her jumping seventy stories for a shortcut.

The overlapping error in judgment disturbed Emma. A trend seemed to be evolving, one she had no interest in letting continue.

“We’re sorry, Betsy,” Meggan said. “You left in the middle of your phone call, and when we found out one of the artifacts Amanda was safeguarding went missing, we kind of assumed the worst.”

Although she meant to calm her sister-in-law, the blonde fanned the flames of Betsy’s outrage.

“This is how you treat family?” shouted Betsy, her stare burning at the two other Braddocks. “You think so little of me? What did I ever do to deserve that kind of suspicion?! What are you?! Infallible gods?!”

Not like Brian would take the flak quietly. “Excuse me, but we never claimed perfection!”

“Yeah,” added Amanda, “We just wanted to help. I think you’ve gone far enough with this attitude.”

“No! If you thought that’s far enough, you haven’t even begun to see where I’m going! You don’t trust me--my own twin brother doesn’t trust me. And why? Because I leaving a fucking phone off the hook!”

Ever the peacemaker, Meggan put herself between the siblings. “We’re worr-”

“Shut up!” Betsy screamed. Though only Emma noticed, her shadow strained to come alive. “Worry about your own damned self, you arrogant whore!”

Brian didn’t take kindly to the insult and his voice dipped low. “Take that back, Betsy.”

“What? You think I imagined Meggan’s fling with Kurt? No Brian, I remember your drunken calls at three in the fucking morning, all crying about the girl of your dreams leaving you for a blue freak!”

Rock solid hands intercepted the punch from Brian and the slap from Betsy. “Enough,” declared Emma. “Our aggression is pointless and unfounded.” Betsy tried to tear her wrist away but the blonde didn’t budge. “Elisabeth, turn your telepathy inward and tell me if you find a mental suggestion not unlike the one you were broadcasting to protect this building.”

The wrong tumblers of ideas fell into place in Betsy’s mind. Anger at Brian shifted to anger at Emma, anger and good helping of betrayal. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Quick as lightning, Emma flipped Betsy to the ground and jammed a knee into her back. Shadows burst to life and futilely flicked at the blonde. “If you require an accusation, I am accusing you of being manipulated. Think, Elisabeth, ask yourself when you’ve felt this uncharacteristic brashness and when you’ve been free from it.”

She didn’t listen. She wriggled, she gnashed, she trashed, she roared, she swiped, but she didn’t listen. Her appendages wailed away like they were making progress, but they weren’t. They couldn’t grab a hold of diamond. In Emma’s estimation, someone here was on the verge of doing something they’d later regret--Betsy attacking her family, her family attacking her, Strange pulling a mystical rabbit out of the air, Magik doing likewise. She had to get Betsy to listen to reason, but that required her to turn back into flesh and resume their psychic bond. The anger afflicting everyone would overtake her again; the shadowy tendrils had a real chance at harming her.

But Emma trusted Betsy. It wasn’t an illogical trust: Betsy proved her worth. The risk versus reward wasn’t unreasonable: infighting did no good. On top of everything came a time constraint: demons closed in while Magneto loomed. And the cherry on the sundae? Emma could examine if her mental suggestion theory held any water.

She trusted Betsy, but when you needed something done right... ehhh... you know the saying.

Diamond softened and warmed. Inky tendrils stopped in their tracks and fluttered over silky flesh. Betsy stopped struggling. Emma’s impulsiveness reasserted itself, but the blonde held it check with her emotional discipline. Emma flooded their bond with manufactured serenity and passivity, lulling Betsy into a mesmerized state which was easy to control. Claws disappeared, rage evaporated, and the demon receded.

*Now that I have your undivided attention, I want you to listen to me.*

Caught in the dreamy state, Betsy nodded.

*Shield our minds. Only you and I exist.*

Brian’s shouts, Strange’s observations, Meggan’s sobs, and Amanda’s sneers paled away. Under Emma’s orders, Betsy trapped themselves in their bond, closing off every bit of stimulation besides their own.

Goodbye world, hello astral plane.

A barren, none descript room enclosed them. Betsy sat on the ground, her eyes far away, her mouth smiling, her mental form pliable like putty--an attractive canvas. In the supremely vulnerable state, Emma could’ve done anything to her and she wouldn’t know. The fact that she remained unchanged testified to Emma’s willpower and honor.

Not to mention her affections.

*Wake up, darling.*

With those three words, the blonde released Betsy from her hazy peace. If any other person waltzed about in Betsy’s mind like so, they would’ve found a nice psychic knife in their skull. Since the intruder was Emma, and a very concerned looking Emma at that, Betsy played nice.

Well, playing nice was easier without the blinding anger. *What happened?*

*Sinister plots, subtle ploys--someone is planting emphatic suggestions in us for their own gains.* A wiry grin chased some of the tension away. *How many times have you caught yourself excessively impulsive?*

Betsy immediately caught on to Emma’s train of thought. *Too many to count,* she sighed. *Everything from stealing the Blackbird to trying to tear Brian’s eyes out right now...*

*I’ve found my thoughts fractured and my emotions too raw, both for no good reasons. In truth, I just fell seventy stories to get on the ground faster to answer your cries. God, I didn’t even know what was wrong with you.*

*Should I feel flattered or alarmed at your protectiveness?*

The blonde snuck in a fleeting kiss and a comforting touch. *I’d say alarmingly flattered.* As quick as the gestures appeared, they disappeared, leaving Betsy to pout at the loss. *We have other concerns, though. Can you feel the psychic energies wearing at your shields?*

*Slightly. They’re faint, almost like ubiquitous background noise.* Further isolation of the energies drew sharp displeasure from Betsy. *I can’t believe I didn’t notice these insidious little waves. Curious too, they’re not so much suggestions as they are amplifiers for negative emotions. They’re emanating from a far away but I can’t pinpoint the origin.*

*Then whatever they are and from wherever, it’s undeniable someone is stirring up the ranks of sentient beings everywhere.*

*But what powerful telepath can do this so skillfully and massively?*

*Xavier.*

*Jean.*

*Stryfe.*

*That also means Cable.*

*Both of us, if we combined our powers.*

*Yet, how come I get the feeling that Magneto is involved with this in some way, shape, or form?*

*Because my perceptive ways have blessed you with my wisdom*

Betsy stomped on the floor and folded her arms. *I don’t know whether to laugh or scowl at you.*

Another soft kiss shut Betsy’s mouth. *I do enjoy our bantering and your sweet lips, but there’s things to do and no time to do them. We have to protect ourselves from this mental bombardment, stop Magneto, and prevent demons from flying in through my office.*

*Flying in through your office? Why would they do that?*

*Sam Guthrie did it, that’s all you need to know.*

*Sam?*

*Where you find one X-Man, you find them all.*

Innumerable swift, deft hands embraced the blonde, simulating her in all the right places at one time. And that was the advantage of mental communication: interaction was only limited by imagination. Right now, Betsy had a hell of an imagination. *I’d resent that if it wasn’t so true.*

*Ooo,* purred Emma, *Feisty little one. Are you always this excited?*

A soft breath grazed the nape of Emma’s neck. *When there’s a fight or...*

She trailed off, mischievousness sparkling about her.

*Or?*

Without warning, the astral connection closed down and deposited the women into the oppressive, besieged Manhattan. While they held an entire conversation, mere seconds passed in the physical world.

“Later,” Betsy winked.

Still shivering from the sexual taunting, Emma responded mentally. *Careful, Elisabeth. When I claim my revenge, it will be a long, excruciating process.*

“Looking forward to it.”

“Frost, what are you doing to my sister?!”

Back to the drama.

Although Betsy and Emma found the root of their aggression, that information hadn’t yet reached anyone else. Negative emotions burned away as strong as ever, and while most here weren’t known as hotheads, they weren’t peaceful either. Meggan, harkening back to an earlier, badly adjusted age, bawled like a baby; Amanda cawed like a harpy; Brian carried on like a drunkard. Only Stephen retained a semblance of tranquility, but one expected no less from the Sorcerer Supreme.

To combat this scene, the X-Women worked in a tandem. Extending her psychic shields, Betsy enveloped the unprotected; following behind, Emma wiped out the traces of mental manipulation.

The results were stark and immediate. Bodies returned to normal along with their minds and the shouting, bickering, and bickering died swiftly. The mix of puzzlement (“I remember what I was doing but I don’t remember why”) and uneasiness (“I said and did what?!) put most of the Otherworld contingent on their mental heels.

Not Stephen though. Despite Emma and Betsy’s efforts, they couldn’t penetrate Doctor Strange’s mind. Peculiarly enough, the man even threw them a questioning look and some words. *If you wished to speak, you could have opened your mouths.*

*Sorry,* said Betsy as she escaped from under Emma’s clutches, *We puzzled out the cause behind the severe mood swings plaguing us and decided to do something about them. You haven’t had any sudden, destructive or depressive impulses have you?*

*Only ones to knock some good sense into my uncontrolled companions.*

*I guess you’re unaffected...*

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 41

Title: Secondary Characters, Part 2

Chapter 40: Secondary Characters, Part 2

The Phoenix lived. As the sun’s unforgiving rays burned away the last of her body, a brilliant power rose from her ashes. A new fire took Asteroid M, one impervious to meager restraints like reality. With all his pain taken away, Logan thought he was in heaven.

Not today, not yet.

Black carbon reformed into the shape of Jean. The Phoenix tore Logan’s charred flesh away to reveal untouched skin. Metals and rocks disentangled from their configurations and awaited orders.

Air filled space. Heat lessened. The cry of a proud avian echoed through the vast universe.

“Can you see, Logan?”

Last he remembered, the sun burned his eyes and ears to a crisp. Last he remembered, he was in space where people couldn’t hear you scream. His memories betrayed him again because he stood in a nebula surrounded by formless material, undying fires, and an ashen silhouette of Jean.

“I dunno. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Light burst from cracks in the silhouette. As more light shined through, more cracks appeared, finally crescendoing into a mighty detonation. Clothed in her Dark Phoenix outfit, Jean stepped through into her new existence as the Phoenix, the physical expression of a cosmic force. Energies cascaded from her, wrapped her in an angelic glow to compliment the blazing bird engulfing the place Asteroid M should’ve been.

She looked like Jean, even smelled like Jean, but at the same time, she wasn’t Jean.

“What did you do?” asked Logan. “I was on fire and then... then...”

The red head spoke but her lips didn’t move. “I did nothing,” she replied. “You did it. You released the Phoenix, and now, the Phoenix is ready to save us.” The quicksilver-like metal molded itself. Rock congregated. “Total kinetic control of matter through the subatomic level--I’m building a transport to guide us back to earth. The sun will push us and give us the propulsion we need.”

“Wait, Jean-”

“I have no time, Logan. I had to die to come back, and I don’t know how long they’ll let me stay.”

“Who’s they?”

“Even the Phoenix must answer to others.”

*****************

Kitty phased into an abandoned fast food restaurant to get away from her pursuers. She’d lost sight of everyone else--Scott, Hank, Forge, and Jubilee--long ago, and the chance of finding them in this climate wasn’t high. Of course, Scott didn’t help matters by charging to the Empire State Building like no one’s business. Wouldn’t have been a problem if legions of mutants didn’t stand in the way. What kind of plan was “fight through them” anyway? Kitty blamed the Mark 3 for crashing itself and giving an opportunity to Scott to muck even more things up.

Honestly, seemed like someone inputted the wrong protocols into the flight plan. Kitty wasn’t pointing fingers, but only Scott touched the controls. What? Not like anyone could HACK into the highly encrypted system. Hell, a person needed a computer of brain to even consider the feat, and after that, said person needed security clearances and a lifetime of experience to execute a remote self-destruct command. So, this had to be one person’s fault.

“Nice going, Scott,” she mumbled.

The gang of mutants chasing her rambled by this small Mexican eatery. After seeing them round the corner, Kitty sighed: one less thing to worry about. However, while her hiding place seemed abandoned, it also resembled a war zone. Bodies of a few mutants and plenty humans sprawled over counters, tables, floors, and chairs. Blood mixed together with unfinished food. And the most damning sight? An open cash register flanked by the corpses of two people who appeared to be fighting over money before death claimed them.

How many lives were ruined in this place alone? Each one dead had a story, and Kitty wondered how many of those stories wouldn’t have a happy ending.

God, all her life she’d fought for these people. She’d faced certain death so others wouldn’t, so they’d live in blissful peace. Was this how they spent the days she bought with her sweat, blood, and tears? Did Peter’s sacrifice mean nothing to these people? Not everyone could be a superhero, but was being a decent person too much to ask?

The bitter bile in her throat sickened her. She needed to get out of here, away from the stabbed, strangled, and shot bodies, away from the lone ringing cell phone lying next to a man sporting a bullet hole in his head.

Dejected, Kitty phased through the walls and into another store. A gift shop this one and it was no longer in the spirit of giving. Broken windows and empty racks destroyed the festival atmosphere even as a small music box played “Jingle Bell Rock.”

At least no one died in here.

Suddenly, a baby’s faint cries, accompanied by hoarse screams and cruel, juvenile needling, filled the air. Kitty’s sharp hearing pinpointed the sounds in a general direction, and calling on her physical and emotional reserves, she took off. Without regard for life or limb, she phased through walls and building, using the disturbance as her guide.

The trail ended in a small convenience store.

Inside stood the gang of mutants who harassed her. The five strong faction surrounded a sweaty woman and her messy, blonde haired newborn. One of them severed the umbilical cord with a pilfered knife while another snatched the baby from the mother’s weak grasp. Twirl and whirl went the child carrying mutant while the others held the desperate mother in check.

Declarations of “That’s my child!” and “Give her back to me!” aggravated one of the more violent individuals. His fist turned gray like stone a moment before he clubbed the woman in the back of the head--she dropped like a sack of beans. The violent hit jarred Kitty from her dazed state.

She grabbed a fire extinguisher and clobbered the one holding the baby. The well-aimed, well-timed blow resulted in the mutant falling over unconscious and cushioning the crying newborn. A puff of white foam blinded the four others. Three more thunder crack strikes left one of the gang remaining, the one who hit the woman. As the fire retardant cleared away, Kitty lobbed the red canister at the man. On reflex, he caught the projectile in his arms. Distracted, he failed to see the impressive kick which propelled him into the beverage fridge’s glass pane.

When the last of the glass shards clanked to the linoleum floor, only the baby’s crying could be heard. Kitty bent down to where the young mother lay. Her eyes were open wide, still like her body. She didn’t had no breath. A touch of her wrist revealed the obvious: no pulse.

The blonde baby girl cried louder.

Here ends the story of Marissa Ackerman.

*****************

They peeled off: Warren dove after Bobby and Sam went for Ororo. They had no strategy, only a drive to succeed. Determination alone saw them through countless dog days, and by the looks of things, this would be one of the doggiest in recent memory. Good thing Warren rated among the most determined of people, and Sam? He wasn’t shabby in that department himself.

Too bad. In their zeal, they lost of sight who exactly they were dealing with.

Warren swooped in and saved Bobby from shattering into a million pieces. Though alive, the immense hole in his chest courtesy of Fantomex ruined his day. As shown by Emma, he wouldn’t die, but he did hurt a whole lot.

His chest might’ve needed help, but his mouth ran just fine.

“Whew, flyboy, am I glad to see you!”

“How’s Paige?”

“What? No ‘How you doin’ Bobby?’ I just got shot!”

“If you can talk, then you’re fine. I’d be worried if you shut-”

Warren stiffened. A spring of blood erupted from his chest, and all Bobby could see before they corkscrewed out of control was a sniper rifle totting Fantomex leaning over the edge of Empire State Building, smoke ascending from his barrel. A colorful insult died on the tip of Bobby’s tongue when the two airborne X-Men tumbled through a window, two file cabinets, and an office Christmas tree.

Sam fared much better. Magneto was about to impale Storm on a flagpole when she summoned a holy hell of a typhoon. The gale winds threatened to upend everyone caught in its path, and that included the captured X-Men. Lining himself up, Sam braved the tempest, his purpose to round up the teammates trapped in ice. He crashed into Bishop, Paige, and Alex, but wasn’t the Professor in between Paige and Alex? He glanced back to see Tessa struggling to haul Charles over to the fire escape door.

Like any good southern boy, he assumed the woman had the best of intentions.

Well, not to mention he probably couldn’t carry the Professor as well. Three people tested the limits of his strength and mutant powers. Four would be impossible.

Bolts of lightning sought Toad and electrocuted him for his previous transgression. The winds toppled Fantomex and Esme, the two unprotected by magnetic shields. Even with said shields, Magneto, teeth gritted and forehead creased, strained against the weather witch’s best shot.

Lorna yawned. Her body built up such a wealth of power that hurricane force gales failed to move her. Powered by the negative emotions of millions and the effects of Kick, Lorna floated up to Ororo.

Pretty. White hair spread out in all directions. Dark skin glistened in rain water. Ample breasts heaved against her wet clothes. Eyes closed like she had no cares about tomorrow. Guttural groans showed her effort. Face tilted to the clouds. Pretty in a primal fashion and Lorna liked Ororo this way.

Lorna stuck her tongue in Ororo’s opened mouth and formed an airtight seal with her lips. A surprised squeal indicated Storm’s lapse in concentration. The rains slowed, the winds stopped, and Toad plunked onto the cement looking much like a lump of coal. Her still bound hands batted about, but besides making wet slapping noises, they did nothing.

Stunning Ororo, Lorna broke the kiss. “Pretty,” Polaris smiled, “Too bad you’re not on Papa’s side.”

After being flung into a building by Magneto earlier, Rogue dusted herself off and prepared to have another go at him. Not even halfway to her feet, Storm, punched by Lorna, plowed into her and knocked her back on her butt.

Meanwhile, Magneto noticed his missing hostages.

**********************

- To be continued...

Chapter 42

Title: Wrath

Chapter 41: Wrath

The plan? Simple.

Meggan and Amanda stayed behind to protect people from Belasco’s forces. Emma, Betsy, Brian, and Stephen would fly (with the Doctor’s magic) to the Empire State Building, rescue the X-Men, and “cowboy up” to the Otherworld invasion. They reasoned that between Emma’s diamond body, Betsy’s telepathy, and the combined mystical powers of Brian and Strange, they’d be able to neutralize Magneto. Great plan, but great plans had a penchant for falling apart.

First sign of trouble came when they left Frost Tower. Suspended in a globe of magic, their current height--eight stories and rising--afforded them a clear view of Manhattan’s shoreline parks. Over toward a corner, was that South or North Cove? Whatever Cove, demons fell back like chastised children, all because of one man.

“Vargas.”

Everyone stared at a suddenly agitated Betsy.

“Sis, that’s one nasty twitch you’ve got there.”

Emma looked where Betsy locked her eyes. Indeed Vargas carved fists full of death into Belasco’s army. He seemed intent on a target, too, intent on pursuing Mystique. Emma’s expression obtained a bit of Betsy’s when she saw the blue skinned mutant.

Wrath, and not amplified by Lorna’s powers, consumed Betsy. Not often one got to face their killer, but here he was, larger than life and unwittingly mocking her. Emma would’ve tried to act as the sensible one if her own temper hadn’t been invoked. So where did things stand? Well, both women bombarded each other with self-propagating, vengeful thoughts. Buoyed by part White Queen fury, part demonic spawn frenzy, both women seethed beyond containable levels.

They turned their heads and shared a measured gaze.

*Didn’t you say you’d put Vargas’ brain into a blender if you ever saw him?*

*Yes,* confirmed Emma. *Didn’t you want to tear the face off of any person who harmed me?*

*Yes.*

*Mystique and Vargas are dangerous individuals.*

*Sure.*

*We’d be doing the X-Men and the world a favor by taking advantage of the situation.*

*No doubt.*

*This is purely for the benefit of mutant-human coexistence.*

*Wouldn’t consider it anything but.*

Betsy shot through the air, flipping and somersaulting with eerie ease. Down she half-soared, half-glided, down ten stories and she landed with neither sound nor any other fanfare. Before her long, purple hair even settled, she sprinted off, slipping through overturned cars, bent parking meters, mutants, and demons like a well-honed blade.

Two pairs of eyes peered over the edge then at the blonde woman.

As she transmuted into diamond, Emma smiled and waved. She leaned back and plummeted to the streets much quicker than Betsy. When she met the ground, a loud crash and a fog of debris shrouded the area. The dust settled, but besides the miniature crater, no sign of Emma remained.

“We missed something, Stephen.”

“Perhaps their departure would be for the best.”

Confused, the Otherworld’s ruler tilted his head. “Don’t they have the experience fighting Magneto?”

Strange muttered choice words including “malum,” “exsisto,” and “teneo.” When he stopped, black auras dotted demons everywhere, most of them concentrated at Battery Park. One out of place aura made its home on the Empire State Building, one Stephen make sure to point at.

“If we were dealing with Magneto, then yes, we would require them, but we’re not.”

The one directing the mutant carnage, the one holding the X-Men hostage, the one who claimed to be the Master of Magnetism glowed in an unholy black.

Brian rubbed his eyes and did a double take. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Magic is a powerful weapon, my friend, and Belasco is one of its most potent users. I wouldn’t put it past him.” Strange closed his billowing cape and gritted his teeth. “Come, we must help the X-Men. This battle has broached onto a metaphysical level and they’ll need our assistance.”

*****************

The butt of her pistol pulverized the ice around his body. Ample metal still pinned his limbs tight, stark reminders of the damp, biting chill. Tessa smashed his face against a window (effectively silencing him) and pressed cold steel up to his temple.

“A change of plans,” she said. “Factors beyond my control have put my masterpiece in jeopardy. It will never be completed now, but you will not see its dismal conclusion.”

Her thumb pulled the hammer back; a foreboding click sounded. “Goodbye Charles Francis Xavier. In your next life, may you learn to fight your own battles.”

“Remy don’t t’ink so, chere. Drop da gun.” To make his point, he tapped his makeshift staff--a discarded bar of rusted iron--against the back of her head.

If the pane of glass didn’t impede his lips’ movement, Charles would’ve spouted eternal gratitude from his mouth.

Talk about factors beyond control--Remy LeBeau wasn’t even suppose to be here. The Cajun was a wild card, unpredictable in the best of circumstances. Apparently, he was unpredictable enough to befuddle Vargas and get to Manhattan in record time. That unpredictability put Tessa in a quagmire of epic proportions.

According to her calculations, there existed a 45.7% chance of him disabling her before she could fire her gun. Within that percentage, a 14.2% probability of him using deadly force arose. If she followed his demand, she’d have a 37.1% chance to talk her way out of this standoff. Her other projections possessed too many flaws to be useful, thanks largely to Remy’s spontaneity.

“Said drop it. Dis be no joke.”

Sage rolled the dice. “What would you do to Charles if he betrayed you?”

She watched him through his reflection in the glass. The man claimed a virtuoso poker face, but even he had slight tells, tells like the slight exhale he did when he heard her question. Alas, data on his mannerisms lacked and Tessa couldn’t extrapolate any conclusions.

“Do you have mercy for someone who uses children to achieve his goals?”

His body temperature and pulse jumped, hounded by the many Morlocks he helped obliterate. Tessa stimulated her tear ducts and waited till the first droplets rolled down her chin. “Tell me, Gambit, what should I do to a man conditioned me to follow his dream? What should I do to the father figure who goaded me into the Hellfire Club as an underage sex slave?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, “but I know killin’ ‘im ain’t de answer. Leggo da gun n’ we can be like civil people, non?”

His sentences lengthened, proof of his flagging resolve. She’d changed his view of her from perpetrator to victim, and the perception shift decreased the likelihood of him beating her to the proverbial punch.

“Killing him is not the answer, but it is a step in the right direction.”

“Chere, der be bigger t’ings ta worry ‘bout. Remy ain’t a smart man, but he sure puttin’ a bullet in his head ain’t gonna make ya no friends.”

Gun shook and the tears rolled. Tessa inputted the optimal mix of self-loathing, fear, and remorse into her voice. “You are correct,” she whispered, the pistol falling from her unsure hand and clattering to the floor.

Remy sighed and drooped his shoulders, glad for the scenario to be over.

Before he got a chance to say one of his Cajun quips, Tessa yanked the bar from his hands and whacked him in the jaw.

*****************

X’ian sagged. She couldn’t breathe anymore. Her heart labored for one, maybe two, final beats. She felt, smelled, and saw--her brain hadn’t accepted her death yet. Long ago she’d lost her hold on Rachel and the red head stayed blissfully silent since then. Her morbid curiosity wondered if she’d outlast Rachel.

Out of the corner of her eye, a bright light appeared.

Well, so long world. It was a nice life while it lasted, full of ups and downs but mostly downs. Would miss the food the most, that and the Grey Goose vodka. She’d miss her little siblings and all the fun friends. As hard as the X-Men lifestyle was, she’d miss that too. Got to see many interesting, mind blowing things while in the company of the New Mutants.

The light drew closer.

Did people who suddenly died see the light too? What about those who got beheaded? How about blind people? Why a light? Why not a slow descending darkness?

Death was confusing, but it didn’t stop the light. X’ian read an article that said the light was brilliant and white. How come this light was fiery red and in the shape of an eagle? How come it moved from side to side? How come there looked to be a rock in the middle of it?

And how come Jean and Logan rode the rock?

A force lifted her to the sky, closer to the light, closer to Jean. Flames licked her face and warmed her like a childhood blanket. Heat cauterized the bleeding wounds, but something else stirred in that fire. Like all fires, it hurt, but unlike the rest, it didn’t kill. X’ian’s body sputtered and groaned, but the fire coaxed it to start again, to live again. Numbed nerves refired, the backlog of impulses crashing into her like a speeding truck. X’ian found the ability to scream.

From the sweat inducing pain came life, and from that life came energy revitalizing her near-dead tissue. Blood filled veins. Skin knitted itself. Her lurching stomach calmed. Fractured bones fused. Bruises faded.

X’ian collapsed onto... onto... a pair of soft arms?

Rachel, alive and well, smiled at her. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“How...”

“Mom did it,” she smiled, tipping her head over to Jean. “The Phoenix healed us.”

Shocked, X’ian managed an awe-struck “Thank you.”

Despite the miraculous save, Logan appeared displease, at least, more so than his usual self. His frown contrasted with Jean’s radiant form. It was like he’d lost someone dear or was about to.

“Are both of you ready?”

“Ready for what, Mom?”

Briefly, Jean’s calming image faltered. “Destiny’s end.”

****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 43

Title: High Strung with TiVo

Chapter 42: High Strung With TiVo

Stumbling to her knees, the winged demoness watched the ruler of Limbo demolish the remains of her sisters. Loyalty pulled her up. Love for Master allowed her to continue. In light of Master, the considerable hole in her stomach didn’t seem important anymore; only doing what He required of her mattered.

The witch took her for dead. How wrong she’d be after a set of claws ripped out her voice box. Closer the demon edged, her weapons of choice extending from her left hand while her right held her innards in place. Say goodnight, righteous sorceress.

The electrical socket next to the demon fizzled before erupting in an unnatural surge that painfully froze its body. Amanda whipped around and split her assailant down the middle. Splattering to the shiny floor, the two halves revealed Meggan Braddock behind them.

“That’s the last one,” the blonde smiled. For good measure, Meggan cracked her knuckles (a move she emulated from Brian) and winked confidently. “I think Emma will be pleased!”

After Doctor Strange warded off the building to mental suggestion, working together resumed its typical ease. The two women were trying to shake off making complete asses of themselves: defeating a handful of Otherworld scum filled that order.

Amanda sheathed her sword. “Let’s go check on the people.”

“Of course!”

Peppy like a cheerleader, Meggan skipped, hopped, and glided to the elevator. She pressed the down button and made a big production of twiddling her thumbs.

“Meggan?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to cheer me up.”

The elevator dinged and they shuffled in. “But you’re sad,” the blonde pointed out, “As your friend, it’s my duty to make you feel better.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. When people say they’re fine, they’re always not. I learned that from watching Brian.”

Meggan wrapped an elusive innocent perception in a wise woman’s mind--maybe that’s why Amanda appreciated their friendship. Honest but sensitive, Meggan proved that bluntness could be expressed through kindness instead of negativity.

The brunette cracked a smile but her voice stayed heavy. “I’m just disappointed in myself, that’s all. It’s like... something so small and insignificant can so easily defeat us, it’s scary.”

“You can’t prepare for everything, Amanda. It’s through our defeats that we’re humbled and it’s through our humbleness that we find the drive to do better.”

Like she said, innocent perception tempered by wisdom. Few could break down complex, conflicting, and unseasonable doubt in two sentences.

“Meggan, you’re absolutely golden, you know that?”

“Yes,” she chirped, “Brian always tells me that!”

Ding.

A sea of eyes looked at them. Adults clutched children tighter while people armed themselves. Police officers drew guns, security personnel took out their batons, a few even held lamp stands like staffs.

“Easy,” said Amanda, her palms opened in a peaceful gesture, “Emma Frost told us to protect you. We’re just checking on everyone.”

A random camera from the back went click, flash.

One of the burly cops in the front asked, “How do you know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because we’re superheroes,” Meggan declared in her cheery voice, “Have any one of you been to England? Have you heard of Excalibur? Yup, the blonde girl was me and, well, Amanda here wasn’t on the team, but she was a good friend to us.”

Oy. “Think,” the brunette said to trigger happy cop, “Would evil demons or out of control mutants come up here and introduce themselves as superheroes?”

Ding. The elevator door tried to close but Amanda’s hand kept it from shutting.

Suitably placated, the bellicose refugees stood down. Barrages of questions took the place of violent threats. Everything from “Where’s Daddy?” to “Are we going to die?” flew at the women like hail. Little hands tugged at their clothes while desperate people tried to get a second of their attention. Hell, a perverted man even tried to grope Amanda, and that’s where she drew the line.

Summoning a flash of lightning, the crack of power sparking from her fingertips shushed most of the people. Yeah, some children mumbled “Cool” and “Can you do that again?” but by and large, Amanda had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Listen: Meggan and I know nothing about your loved ones. All we know is that Manhattan is in deep shit and we are trying to fix it. Now, I want all of you to stay put up here. As of the moment, we are the only people in this building, so if you see, I dunno, moving blobs or crazy mutants, come downstairs and get us.”

“Why aren’t you two staying with us?”

“There’s a riot outside and the ground floor is still the best place to get into the building.”

That and Amanda wanted to get away from the high strung tension of these people.

Ding. The elevator doors closed.

“Amanda, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I’ll apologize to them later,” she replied, “That is, if we live to see them later.”

“Wow, so pessimistic all of a sudden. Tell me, what can go wrong?”

Ding. As the elevator opened, a group of mutants, no longer drawn away by Betsy’s telepathic shroud, crashed a car through the front windows.

*****************

“There! Ooo, stop it there!”

The miracles of TiVo allowed the Stepford sisters to rewind, pause, and fast forward live television. About every channel save for Cartoon Network and Spice played endless footage of the newly dubbed “New York Nightmare.” One of the CNN cameras got close enough to Magneto before being destroyed, and in the background, Sophie thought she saw Esme.

“I told you, I saw her!”

“With Magneto?” Mindee asked.

Phoebe didn’t look pleased at the implication. “No, Esme wouldn’t do something like that.”

Celeste’s quiet voice came from the back of Warren’s living room. “She’s been acting weird.”

“Distant,” Sophie noted.

“Lonely,” added Mindee.

“Just plain weird,” said Celeste, finishing it off.

And Phoebe couldn’t believe her ears. “You three think our sister is... is...”

“Doing something bad?”

“Hurting people?”

“Betraying the school?”

The three Esme-suspicious Stepfords shrugged. “Probably,” they said in unison.

“How come I’m the last to know?!” demanded Phoebe.

“Because you were busy-”

“-chasing after Mr. Guthrie-”

“-and making kissy faces at him.”

“I did not make kissy faces!”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“DID NOT!”

Not in the mood to officiate, Kurt, remote clasped in his only good hand, switched off the TV. “Ladies, behave yourselves. Your sister is probably safe with Frau Lee, and I do not want to hear about inappropriate advances at your instructors.”

Four chastised girls said a “Yes Mr. Wagner” and resumed their argument telepathically. As Ms. Frost said, “Shutting your mouth does not mean ending the conversation.”

*Did too.*

*Did not did not did not DID NOT!*

Understandably, Sooraya and Kevin stayed far away from the bickering siblings. And Kurt? After those painkillers Warren gave him, he wanted to drop to the expensive carpet and sleep. Couldn’t though--as the only responsible adult here, he couldn’t afford to fall asleep and leave the students unsupervised.

Shuffling into the kitchen, he poured himself a icy flute (Where the hell were the regular glasses?) of mineral water and hope the sharp contrast would wake a few nerves. As he gulped his drink over the sink, his eagle eyes saw a handful of quickly approaching dots in the New York skyline. Not trusting his drugged up self, Kurt splashed the remaining water in his face and looked again.

Yup. Dots. Bigger dots now, exactly seven of them.

Who could they be? The Avengers? Sentinels?

The crystal flute slipped from his fingers and shattered in the sink.

“Mein Gott,” he mumbled, running back into the living room.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 44

Title: Cold Logic

Chapter 43: Cold Logic

An unnatural rumble perked Mystique’s ears. No, this sound didn’t belong to Belasco, Magneto, or Vargas. It resembled something human, something only terrible homo sapiens could bring to the world.

One of the craftier demons tried to drop onto her from the tree above. She sidestepped, then after it landed, flung it to the ever-present, sword-swinging Vargas. Great, another thousand times and he might get tired. Emphasis on might.

Rampant demons cushioned his approach, but sooner or later, the tactic of maneuvering Otherworld denizens between her and the whirling dervish would fail. Hey, he’d already clipped her once with that sword: didn’t need to do it another time.

The rumbling continued. Mystique hurdled a park bench and squeezed past another pack of fanged monsters. Their claws dug into her skin, but whatever they dished out had nothing on one of Vargas’ grazing blows. She didn’t look back; she didn’t stop. A battle cry drowned out the hungry roars, the verbal noises giving way to whispers of steel on skin.

Her lungs burned, her legs hurt, her head lightened, but the damned rumbling wouldn’t stop. Finally glancing into the sky, but of course keeping her strides going, Mystique saw a group of... of... something in the air. Aerodynamic contours suggested planes, but who they belonged to became the million dollar question. What other players did Irene predict would get into this game? What unthinkable twist hadn’t happened yet? What-

“-the hell?!”

Rock solid hands pulled her collar and dumped her on the cold grass. An unmovable weight settled onto her chest, preventing comfortable inhalation. For a second, Mystique thought a demon had gotten her, but her captor looked a lot like an undeformed woman. An undeformed, attractive woman. An undeformed, attractive, diamond statue of a woman.

“Frost?”

“We meet again, Mystique.” An index finger and thumb wrapped snuggly around the metamorph’s neck. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you for handing me to McCoy.”

Was this lady insane? “Vargas is coming!”

“I think Psylocke has him occupied.”

Above the crunching of bone and general slaughter of Belasco’s fodder rang a kia. Mystique couldn’t see, but she guessed the resounding smack and resulting boom meant a certain Spaniard took a nasty spill.

The digits pinched tighter. Mystique tried to dislodge the arm but only hurt herself in the process.

“Why?” pressed Emma.

The White Queen had the advantage. Needed to go on a limb. Needed to trick her, maybe talk a way around her. Mystique called on her years of observation and bullshitting in hopes the experience would allow her an avenue of escape.

“Psylocke saved you,” she mustered through clenched teeth.

“She did.”

To quote Irene, young love would see her through. *Oh Irene,* she prayed, *Don’t fail me now.*

In her most confident and derisive tone, Mystique said, “It turned out for the best. She would have never admitted her love for you otherwise.”

More pressure closed around her neck, making her gag. “How did you know about us? Another one of Destiny’s diaries?”

“What else? That’s all the woman is to people like you: the sum of her words.”

“You and Irene Adler have a vested interest in my love life?” smirked Emma, “I find that hard to swallow.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Frost. Every one of us has a part to play in fate.”

“You shot me in the back. You pretended to be Isa Hayes to destroy my image. I’m suppose to believe you did that to keep this cosmic play going? I’m suppose to think you have nothing to do with this chaos in Manhattan?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve pushed you out the window of your damned office. Instead, I saved your life and led Psylocke to you. I’m not a friend of you X-Men, but I do care for my daughter enough to make alliances where I normally wouldn’t.”

“What makes you think I even believe a quarter of these words you’re feeding me?”

“You’re not taking my head off. Everyone else is stark raving mad for some reason, but you’re not affected. You’ve still got a trace of good sense left in you.”

Interested, Emma removed her hand from Mystique’s throat. “Do you know who is destabilizing and distorting thoughts?”

Destabilizing... destabilize... stabilize... stable... keep them stable, away from the poles. Only common link between stability and instability? Magneto. Keep them stable, away from the poles, away from the daughter. Magneto. Polaris. Something between them must’ve been clouding everyone’s judgment. No, not between them, Irene would’ve been clearer about something like that. Away from the daughter, away from Polaris.

The puzzle began to piece itself together.

Frost seemed unaffected by whatever machination at work. Mystique couldn’t find the Cajun anywhere. Psylocke had Vargas occupied. Rogue, stubborn and foolish Rogue, probably needed help because she got in over her head. And besides, didn’t Mystique have to keep them--whoever “them” were--away from the poles?

She’d done a good job bullshitting Frost, turning her from murderous to curious in record time. Maybe she could be of further use.

“Listen, get off of me and we can rehash old wounds later. You have a reputation to uphold and I have a daughter to help.”

Reputation? Emma refused to budge an inch. “What reputation are you referring to?”

“Your name, of course. If you save New York from destruction, everything I said as that nimrod doctor would be trumped by your heroics. I am not your enemy, Frost, not this time. Our partnership could be mutually beneficial.”

“But what about Psylocke?”

Christ, forgot about the Ice Queen’s new fuck buddy. “Irene wrote that she’ll face her killer and win,” lied Mystique, “That is Psylocke’s destiny.”

The diamond princess hauled Mystique to her feet. “I haven’t settled my score with you yet,” the blonde warned. “Don’t make me settle it early.”

Hope sprung eternal, didn’t it? Hot damn, the bitch bought it! “Have no fear, Frost. I wouldn’t betray a fellow lesbian, especially one I converted.”

In all honesty, if Emma wasn’t so coldly logical in her diamond body, she would’ve clubbed the mouthy mutant over the head with the nearest blunt object. However, since she was coldly logical at the moment, she realized that any response would delay action, and the last thing anyone needed was a delay. A delay meant wasted time, and wasted time spelled the difference between life and death.

Betsy faced Vargas. Destiny or no, she could use Emma’s assistance; however, Mystique’s observation about trumping enemies through heroics sounded too alluring to ignore. Here was her past, present, and future and a chance to reclaim it all. Emma looked around for a giant fight, one with an Asian woman and a hulking Antonio Banderas look-alike. Nope. Betsy was no longer in sight and Emma didn’t want to risk turning back into flesh (demons, Mystique, telepathic suggestions, oh my) to find her over their bond, so she had to make a snap decision.

Coldly logical and devoid of emotion, young love played no role in the snap decision process. Efficiency and sensibility reigned and Emma was unable to care. Which outcome would bring the greatest returns? Which act would be the path of least resistance? Which would be the quickest?

Snap.

The rumbling from moments ago almost deafened Mystique’s sensitive ears. Both women looked up at the disturbance.

Mischievousness glimmered in the red head’s smirk. “Something wicked this way comes.”

Emma rolled her eyes and pulled Mystique away from the park and toward the Empire State Building.

*****************

“ETA?”

“Thirty seconds and counting.”

“Unable to acquire target. Repeat, unable to acquire target. The magnetic disturbance is too great.”

“You better come up with a miracle. We’re at the point of no return.”

“Keep it together, soldiers. The fate of the mankind rests on your capable shoulders. You will succeed because you have no other choice.”

“Bombs armed.”

“Any sign of detection?”

“Negative.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“May God be with you.”

“Ten.”

“Target in sight! Target in sight! Switching to manual aim!”

“Five.”

“Shit, there’s tons of them!”

“Drop the payload now! Now damn it!”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 45

Title: Boom, Boom, Boom

Chapter 44: Boom, Boom, Boom

Boom. Boom. Boom. From under the Christmas tree emerged Bobby. An unhealthy chunk of his forearm went missing thanks to the fall. He’d fix it, that and his chest, if two factors didn’t stop him: Warren hacking out blood and streams of fire rushing toward them. No place else to go, the one known as Iceman stretched his powers like he never had, creating a dome of ice around him and his friend.

An orange hue shined through the barrier, and each passing second the orange hue brightened. Bobby felt the ice barrier weaken, layers of cover destroyed by heat, debris, and more random explosions. The floor threatened to give way as cracks criss-crossed it. Diverting precious energy, Bobby filled the cracks and prayed it would hold.

If it didn’t? At least he’d die in a snowball. Kind of appropriate for someone named Iceman.

*****************

Atop a random skyscraper, Sam set his burdens down. “Those collars gotta come off.”

“You could say that again,” grumbled Bishop.

However, Paige had other ideas. “Git this ice offa us first! It’s freezin’!”

A rumble broke into a roar. In the sky, a suspiciously dangerous mass nose-dived straight at them. Instinct moved Sam’s stunned body and wrapped his arms around his three teammates. Digging deep into his mutant power repertoire, a large kinetic blast field erected around the four X-Men.

Boom, boom, boom.

*****************

From behind her came a roar. Caught unaware, Kitty held the blonde baby tighter and hoped whatever mutant had surprised her wouldn’t kill them in one stroke.

Then boom, boom, boom. The ground shook and the store came tumbling down. A slab of roof knocked the back of her head, breaking her attempt to phase. What a way to go, crushed by a building. Before death’s bony fingers closed around her, a familiar displacement washed over her. Felt like... like... teleportation. Like Amanda’s teleportation. Like Illyana’s teleportation.

Like the stepping disks native to Limbo.

*****************

“Everybody, gather around me!”

The students didn’t ask. Six pairs of arms threw themselves around Kurt as the boom, boom, boom, and BOOM boomed, the last one landing too close to Warren’s posh condo. Fractions of a second before the living space turned to ash, Nightcrawler teleported.

*****************

Magneto gasped. Deep within him, another being tried to break to the surface. At first, he thought it was Xorn, but this other consciousness was too reckless. Coughing, he noticed a speckle of blood fly through the air. He looked at his hands, and for a moment, even wrapped under his thick gauntlets, he knew they weren’t his.

“What is happening to me?”

Lorna drew her fist back to her side after punching Storm into Rogue. Pretty little thing just got her insides rearranged. She turned to her father who, for the first time in months, looked confused.

“Papa?”

Primal urges took over. Hunger. Death. His noble cause of mutant liberation disappeared, replaced by a desire to bring chaos to earth. He did the task well. Master would be proud.

Master? Magneto called no one master!

“Papa? Did anyone hurt you?”

This was where he belonged, ruling over his species and guiding them to glory. How could he ever lose sight of that ultimate goal? What plot did his enemies use to lay him low like this?

In the distance, he recognized two people, mostly because they floated in the air like him: Doctor Strange and Captain Britain. How or why Psylocke’s brother was here didn’t add up. What did add up was Strange waving his hands around and chanting and pointing, specifically pointing at Magneto himself. The typical hero types, always sticking their noses where they didn’t belong--Strange had to be at the cause of his problem.

Galvanized, Magneto pulled support girders from surrounding structures and hurled them at the two men. His concentration elsewhere, he didn’t notice the bombs falling until first boom, boom, booms uprooted scads of his followers, flinging them and their severed body parts into the air like ants in a tornado.

Good thing Lorna noticed. She generated an electro-magnetic force field and blocked the two bombs headed straight for them. Metals torn from too many sources enfolded the still falling payload and redirected them elsewhere, most notably toward the Hudson River and back at the fighter planes.

Oh, those humans will pay for trying to harm Papa.

*****************

Mystique kept a white knuckled grip on the life-saving, Oh-Shit bar. About twenty seconds ago, she thought Emma Grace Frost didn’t know how to drive. Right now, she revised that statement: Emma Grace Frost drove but she shouldn’t. The Mitsubishi Eclipse they’d “borrowed” drifted around a 14th Street corner at a peaceful seventy miles per hour. Tires smoked and deafening screeches filled the air as the car fishtailed, spun, and at the last possible moment, regained traction to speed along its merry way.

Flying experimental planes? No problem. Using Forge’s crackpot weapons? No sweat. Dodging Sentinels? Did that before breakfast. Nothing scared Mystique, nothing except for barreling down a crowded street in a flimsy box of sheet metal while weaving around obstacles like mutants, trucks, building pillars, newsstands, and parking meters...

All while relying on the White Queen’s dubious skills.

Yellow eyes dilated to unnatural extremes when the speedometer edged toward a hundred and ten.

On a freeway, that would’ve been fine. Mystique’s problem came when an unmoving, jackknifed semi loomed not half a block away. And Frost showed no signs of slowing. Incidentally, neither did Mystique’s pounding heart.

A hard left pressed the metamorph’s face into the passenger window. The car edged close to the semi’s underside, close enough for her to see the brand name of the spare tires. Interesting--didn’t know Goodyear made tires that big. By some miracle, the expected crash didn’t materialize.

That was the good news. The bad news?

Frost gunned the Eclipse onto the sidewalk, went airborne, plowed through one of Louis Vuitton’s meticulous displays, took out the leather bag section, busted down the front entrance, and skidded onto Broadway.

To the impressive driving, Mystique had one comment. “You’re a fucking maniac!”

An emotionless smile tweaked the diamond lips. “Relax,” said Emma, “I know what I’m doing.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“Well, you could get out if you want to.”

“While you’re going over a hundred?!”

“Never said you’d survive if you did.”

Boom, boom, boom. Clear road one second, craters and fires the next. Emma swerved around a flaming, falling lamppost. A toppled hotdog stand got in the way and demolished the Eclipse’s windshield. With a solid punch, Emma knocked the cracked glass out in time to see a jet of fire ploom at her.

Mystique let go of the Oh-Shit bar, covered, and ducked.

*****************

Boom, boom, BOOM rocked the Empire State Building’s windows, blowing them out like eardrums. Sage ignored the commotion and capitalized on a confused Gambit by landing a solid kick to his kidneys. Always resilient, the Cajun made sure the advantage didn’t last by pushing away the pain and head butting her. Till the explosion, they’d been struggling for the upper hand, him staying close to keep her away from the Professor and her staying even closer to prevent a kinetic attack.

They danced a ballet of grabs and holds. Hands on coat lapel meant forearms crashing onto wrists. A step between the legs resulted in a counter step to the side. The makeshift staff had a supporting role--the weapon was too long to strike but it served as an excellent defender.

Metal on bone hurt.

The Professor wasn’t stupid. As much as he could given his bound limbs, he wormed away, but Tessa wouldn’t let him put more than a yard of distance between himself and the fight. Every cheap shot she could land on him she did, which then forced Remy to defend him, which then exposed the Cajun to possible strikes.

The man was good. Fast. Strong. Smart. Sound technique. He had an eerie concentration, one that focused on many factors with equal scrutiny. Unlike many foes, he didn’t talk either, at least not until the fight was well in hand.

“Tessa, you must stop!”

Another boom, a secondary one not from the S.H.I.E.L.D. fighters she duped into bombing Manhattan. Ruptured gas line? Mutant power? No idea, but didn’t matter. Sage shoved her elbow into Gambit’s sternum and crumbled him with a boot to the knee.

“Stop this madness!”

He had the staff and swung it. She wretched the bar from him, but the precious moments lost let him recover and strike her stomach. An acceptable trade off if her next attack succeeded.

Tired of the Professor’s interjections, Tessa lanced the bar at him. With vigilance and speed, Remy deflected the projectile just enough so that it flipped end over end and knocked Charles silly instead of impaling him.

The two combatants stopped to appraise each other.

Remy huffed and puffed, sweat matting his hair and drizzling down his chin. Scuffs here and there littered his coat. Although Tessa didn’t breathe heavily, she did sweat and wince, and that was about the equivalent of an agonizing cry for another other person. They both had large bruises, the most evident one on the side of Remy’s face.

He wiped a river of perspiration from his eyes. “You pretty good, chere.”

She drew a pair of pistols.

“Dat be bad.”

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, boom. Boom? What the-

***************

- To be continued...

Chapter 46

Title: Here She Goes Again

Chapter 45: Here She Goes Again

Betsy thought she did well. For a while, Vargas let her get her hits and sometimes even looked like he reeled on his heels. She thought her enhanced speed kept him off-balance and away from his sword. She thought her strength hurt him. She thought she was a worthy adversary.

She thought wrong.

The high of battle made her lose track of where she was. If she stopped to look, she would’ve noticed a lack of demons attacking either she or Vargas. She would’ve noticed Belasco’s aura close by. Her fist struck Vargas’ jaw but instead of budging, he snared her hand.

Wonder snuck into his voice. “What manner of beast are you? I killed you. Your fate is sealed...”

The psychic knife flared to life in her other hand. “Guess what? I got better.”

This was how the scene was suppose to go: Betsy would turn Vargas into a drooling vegetable, pry his sword from his clammy hands, shove it into his gut, do a little dance (maybe the Electric Slide or, God forbid, the Macarena), and rejoice.

Uhh, no. This was how the scene really went.

Two distinct varieties of pain crossed Betsy’s eyes. The first: him crushing her hand in his grasp. Given how the man could go toe-to-toe with Rogue and win, this simple attack hurt a whole lot. It was a hot pain, one which made itself known immediately and repeatedly, one that pulsed with a heart all its own. The second: him lodging his sword between her breasts. Now this pain, this was an icy, “death becomes you” pain, the one that didn’t make itself known because the body failed to realize it’s been skewered. After the iciness passed, her nerves disintegrated themselves in a concerted crescendo of desperate, fatal pain.

Vargas twisted the blade and ripped it out her side so it cleaved her already stilled heart in two.

Muted, Betsy gaped in horror. It couldn’t end like this, not again. For all her demonic traits and regained powers, she wasn’t enough to even make this an interesting fight. Like last time, he looked at her, shrugged, and tore her to pieces without breaking a sweat.

Adding insult to injury, he pushed a finger against her head and toppled her over. “You cannot escape your fate.”

Boom, boom, boom rocked the landscape as Betsy bounced against the ground. She couldn’t move--probably something important got severed--but she could see, hear, and feel. She saw Belasco emerge from the tower of flames, devilish grin on his face and not a speck of dirt on his golden clothing. Although dying howls in the air, he appeared unconcerned. Her inner demon salivated and strained for release. Bolstered by the dancing fires, her shadows took on lives of their own while darkness ooze out of her gaping wound like living blood.

And she heard laughter.

Belasco’s grating laughter. “You,” he pointed at Vargas, “You are the one who stems the tide of my minions.” Slitted eyes darted at Betsy’s mangled body. “You also defeated that parody of the Braddock child. I am impressed.”

*Emma, where are you?*

No answer. If only Emma was here, she could... she could...

Despite Belasco’s intimidating stare, despite the bombs going off, despite being surrounded by now encroaching demons, Vargas held true to his anti-“everything not homo sapiens” mantra. Front leg extended and back knee bent, his sword nestled in his steady hands and pointed at the sorcerer.

“I shall cleanse your kind from my world.”

Of the insults, bargaining, banter, questions, and declarations Belasco expected, he didn’t expect a self-confident threat, especially the one he heard. Most would’ve been cringing and blabbering, especially these weak willed mortals, but this mortal not only talked, he talked like one about to continue running roughshod over the best his hellish Otherworld had to offer.

That, Belasco sneered, wasn’t happening. The ones he destroyed were only shades; the others here were more intelligent, hearty, and fearsome than any amalgam of appendages dispatched thus far. Magic flinging imps, hypnotic succubae, elemental shamans, and gruesome flayers charged, the ground shaking like an earthquake hit.

Trees fell. Dust kicked up. Sidewalks cracked. Everything from shrill cries to bluish energies converged on Vargas, but he remained still, and soon, obscured by debris, blood, and bodies, he disappeared.

Before feet trampled Betsy to unrecognizable pieces, a crushing, disembodied force hauled her into the air over the stampeding horde. It rose her high enough to see the endless sea of demons moving into Manhattan streets, spreading as only a disease could, one avenue at a time. At the center of this cancer: the red portal and the lone, unidentifiable figure floating in it.

The ground came rushing back, but it stopped and left her inches from Belasco.

Betsy would’ve shuddered if she could--the demon in her jumped for joy at Master’s call.

“Stubborn,” the magnus grinned, “I remember you well, my pretty thing. You brought me endless days of entertainment with your staunch refusal to fight against your brother. I take great pride in knowing I broke such a powerful spirit as you. Look at you: a mortal wound hewed into your chest yet you hold the darkness away. Why? Because you know if you so much as lose a slip of your control, the pitiful semblance of your former existence will be wiped out by the basest needs of your new physical vessel.”

Stubborn,” Belasco repeated, running his palm around the unmarred side of her curvaceous body.

“I like stubborn.”

A hand pulled her closer. “I do not need to know how you resisted my beckoning or regained your will. All I know is that you will be mine once again. You will bow to me and call me Master: it happened before and it will come to pass again. Perhaps you need a refresher on our splendid time together.”

The mental barriers and hazy memories surrounding her afterlife renewed themselves, every burn, every cut, every torturous moment. She remembered talking to Bishop, then a crushing hand wrenching her spirit away from heaven and straight into hell. No, it wasn’t hell because hell didn’t cover everything. Whatever Dante saw in his Inferno amounted to a vacation in Belasco’s realm.

Let’s just say that the only thing worse than an inescapable hell was an escapable one. Why? Because the prospect of escape gave a woman hope, and day in, day out, that hope died a slow, terrible death. No escape, then no hope to crush, but Belasco dangled the many exits before her and dared her to reach them. She failed, and the torture went on with a new ferocity each time. Her existence blurred into an unending tragedy, and piece by piece, her sanity escaped.

The Shadow King escaped, and then even her spirit wasn’t her own.

Betsy tried to brave the avalanche of her ghosts, but one too many excruciating remembrances slipped past her resolve, and from there, more followed. Her inner demon smashed into her consciousness and a numb, muted darkness swallowed her soul.

Inky tendrils she dammed burst forth. Wet rips rose above the commotion of war. Even so far away, she felt her body heal itself... feed itself...

Meat. Meat of demons.

*Emma!*

No answer. Desperate, afraid, and now healed, her voice returned.

Hunger. Hunger for destruction.

“EMMA!”

No answer. She wanted to cry, but another voice broke through.

“M... Mas... Master...”

Belasco laughed. From one of his many pouches, he produced a leash attached to an engraved hook. The sharp end lodged itself between Betsy’s shoulder blades; bony hands collapsed her to her knees.

“You belong to me.”

A final, painful tug of the leash extinguished the last embers of rebellion.

“Prove yourself worthy and you will keep your life.”

An inhuman roar called to the night. Bloodshot eyes peered about like a newborn’s watching the world for the first time. Fangs protruded and claws lengthened. Saliva pooled at the ground. Elisabeth Braddock receded, and in her place stood something less than human but more than demon.

“Take me to the ones you call X-Men.”

The obedient hound fumbled for traces of those its host befriended. It couldn’t find this Emma person, but it did sense the one called Brian.

*******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 47

Title: Boom, Boom, Boom Redux

Chapter 46: Boom, Boom, Boom Redux

Yvette turned her camcorder to the sky and caught a handful of jet fighters passing by.

Boom, boom, boom. The very core of New York City shook and Yvette dove behind a dumpster for cover. Tunnels of flames consuming all that was burnable surrounding both sides of the alley. The rush of flaming air and jaw shaking intensity painted an image of hell on earth in the woman’s mind. Besides the booms, nothing else made a bead of noise. Mutants, humans, and animals caught in the blast had no chance to scream. Falling debris disintegrated. The cement smoked.

Even when the towers of orange faded into smoldering bonfires, the New York night felt like a blistering train engine furnace.

“Hell on earth,” Yvette whispered to herself, “The fall of Manhattan.”

It sounded like a fine title for this documentary. Culled from the footage of flying superhumans, city wide mob rule, and now the U.S. government’s ruthless attempt to take control of the situation would be a gritty up-close view of this mayhem. The prospect of the next big shot stirred Yvette on out of her hiding place and into the streets.

The wavy haze of heat framed every detail.

Traffic signs, left in a gnarled, half-melted plight, swung in the wind. Bits of papers flew into the air like playful fireflies. The bombs’ aftermath pushed back the night as best it could. A rank stench of burning plastics, cloth, flesh, and refuse overpowered Yvette’s nose and forced her to shove a handkerchief in her face. Where seconds ago Broadway teamed with rioting mutants, it now only held grim reminders of the military’s might.

In the distance, a soft whine sounded. Set against this backdrop, the humming whine was from a life long ago, foreign but familiar. Yvette turned, and nestled beside fires and smoke were headlights. Her brain locked up, stunned someone would be alive let alone tearing through the devastation in a car.

Car. Street. Get outta the way. Outta the way!

Her brain bellowed for a response, but Yvette was too shocked. The car--a singed, deep purple Eclipse--swerved around her and skidded left onto 34th Street toward the Empire State Building.

Empire State Building! She swung the camera up and saw a laboring Magneto point. Using the zoom, she followed his line of sight to two other hovering, distraught men. They seemed determined to do something and Magneto seemed equally determined to do away with them.

Great shots. Great drama.

And the drama got even better when a small explosion lit up the seventieth floor. A mass of black in the shape of person expelled out of an already blown out window. She tried to film the descent, but no go.

Yvette lost the shot in the concrete skyline.

Then, out of the blue, a baby carrying brunette slipped out of thin air and plopped down not twenty feet away from her. If her camcorder didn’t catch the event, no one would’ve ever believed it, not even Yvette herself. Remembering the danger and possible mutants still roaming the streets, the CNN camerawoman gave the brunette a once over and bolted into another alley before she could be seen.

Hey, people popping out of nowhere had to be dangerous.

*****************

The boom, boom, boom stopped the fight. One of the mutants storming Frost Tower spoke for everyone. “What was that?”

Spikes of ice exploded from Amanda’s hands, their trajectory, velocity, and mass controlled by Meggan. Sharpened, these weapons could turn their victims into porcupines--dead porcupines. Lucky for the wayward mutants, Meggan and Amanda weren’t in their previous, more belligerent mindset. Spikes fattened into wads of bludgeoning goodness and thundered onto the mutants like oversized balls of hail.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, thud, thud, thud, thud. They went down just as the boom, boom, boom set off every fire alarm left operational.

“He did have a point,” Amanda allowed, “What WAS that?”

“Maybe Brian and the others defeated Magneto?”

“We can only-”

“Help! Oh God, please! Help!”

The heroines watched an older, white haired woman rush through the fire escape, her face red and tears in her eyes. “Please, you have to help us upstairs!”

Being the more compassionate one, Meggan put a reassuring hand on the woman’s back and bade her to catch her breath. “Tell me the situation, please?”

The beads of sweat covered her clothes and she couldn’t get a hold of her anxiety. “One of us took a cop’s gun and has a child hostage! He says he wants to go out but we’re afraid he’ll draw the mutants here!”

“Ok,” nodded Meggan, “Come with me and I’ll sort everything out. How’s that?”

“Can... can I just stay down here?”

“No, it’s not safe here. Amanda needs all the space she can get to cast her spells. Isn’t that right, Amanda?”

“Right,” the brunette answered, trying to bolster not only the old woman’s spirits but also her own, “I’ll be fine. Take your time.”

Taking the woman’s hand, the blonde ascended to the second floor, the promise of “I’ll be back real fast!” echoing through the lobby.

“No worries,” Amanda replied as she watched another handful of troublesome mutants mill outside Frost Tower.

“No worries at all.”

*****************

Kevin Ford, one of the students at the Xavier Institute, feared his mutation. One brush of skin on skin contact would rapidly decompose any living material, hence his codename, Wither. The Professor promised to get his power under control eventually, and while Ms. Frost had been making great progress with him, he wasn’t banking on being able to touch others any time soon. Take Rogue as an example: she’d been around the X-Men a long time, almost as long as he’d been alive and still no results. He had to give the X-Men credit for trying. An attempt to help him was more than anyone in the world gave him, including his parents.

So, Wither, Kevin Ford, continued to fear his mutation and loathed that one day, he’d turn his deadly power on those who accepted him for what he was. Someday, because fate was such an unkind bitch, he’d touch someone of the Xavier Institute and he’d be back on the streets again with no roof over his sorry head.

Someday came today.

Mr. Wagner teleported everyone. A repulsive darkness clenched his body and chilled him like death, but then it was over, and in the sickening darkness’ stead was a column of fire, the quickly approaching ground, and boom, boom, boom. A series of La Bou canopies interrupted their fall, so instead of cracking their skulls on the sidewalk after plummeting over fifteen stories, they cracked their skulls on the sidewalk after plummeting ten feet.

Only Kurt and Kevin didn’t crack their skulls on the sidewalk: they cracked their skulls on each other’s skulls. The infamous head butt headache put Kevin’s brain through the ringer, but Mr. Wagner’s piercing, bestial cries brought him back with a quickness.

The boy opened his eyes to double vision, double Stepford Cuckoos, double Sooraya, double decaying Kurt. His already thin face shriveled up on itself, his cheek bones rounded protrusions. Yellow eyes got bigger, or maybe it was the shrinking skin which made them appear bigger. Locks of hair blew away clumps at a time just as fast as the enamel wore away on his formerly sharp, pointy teeth.

“Oh.”

“My.”

“Fucking.”

“God.”

Go Stepford sisters.

Between the destructive overture and billowing flames, Kevin Ford curled himself into a tiny ball and hoped for a stray object to fall from the sky and kill him. The painful screaming wouldn’t go away; the panicked words of his peers wouldn’t stop. They asked him things but he refused to answer, a part of him hoping that they’d take their frustrations out on him.

Then, as hope dimmed with Kurt’s dimming life, a handful of X-Men--Cyclops, Jubilee, Beast, and Forge--rounded the corner. Sophie Stepford saw them first.

“Oh, oh help! Help Mr. Summers!” she waved. “Mr. Wagner’s dying!”

Mr. Summers? Kevin gripped himself tighter and wished his own powers to work on himself.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 48

Title: An Ode to Tessa

Chapter 47: An Ode to Tessa

This was it, the end: falling at terminal velocity with only the fatal impact to cushion her. Dejectedly, Tessa wondered if the landing would hurt. Would suck if it did, kind of like a last “fuck you” before life faded away. Even if she didn’t kill the Professor, she’d killed enough of his dream for her to feel satisfied. That was the purpose of this exercise, wasn’t it? To destroy Xavier’s dream? Years of quiet research, months of planning, a lifetime of connections, and a leap of faith into the supernatural culminated in this last dark symphony.

Mutants would rebel against the United States following this bombing. Because of his grudge, Belasco would hunt every X-Man and X-Men affiliate down. Forever and a day, this false Magneto would remind humans of the dangerous mutants, the ones who’d want them dead at all costs.

Vargas.

Dark Beast.

Belasco.

Fantomex.

Xavier.

Tessa played them like the high school marching band’s bass drum. Ha. Funny how she always thought of this endeavor as a musical task, but it was and she it’s conductor. Now, as her own final curtain closed, she examined her masterpiece and found it passable, passable enough to leave in the hands of time. It had already gone too far to stop.

Too far to stop--the story of her life, those four words.

Years ago between the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan, the symphony began with a whimper. A mere girl heard the whimpers of a doomed man, and despite her better judgment, investigated. Buried beneath rock shards was Charles Francis Xavier, mutant, soldier, millionaire, and for a while, father. Unlike the others who’d eventually be called X-Men, Tessa came to Charles with a firm grip on her powers. She didn’t know what she was, but the snowy, rocky no-place she called home sharpened her abilities all the same.

In those cold nights when they ventured toward civilization, he taught her things, things she would’ve never imagined possible. Their classroom consisted of low burning flames and uncomfortable rocks, but in Tessa’s opinion, he did his best teaching then hopped up on giddy enthusiasm and wise melancholy. She already knew much about shielding her thoughts and emotions, so he opened the world of telepathy to her--astral projections, psychic attacks, mental control.

Unknown to the everyone else, Tessa was his first student, the template on which the others would be modeled on. Charles said he’d bring her to America. He said he had a home for her. He said he’d find others like them and help them with their puzzling abilities. He said many things, but he only promised one: to protect her.

Through a series of events, she transferred Charles to a hospital in India. His body might’ve left, but many nights he chatted with her on the astral plane. He talked of his painful rehabilitation and the insurmountable obstacles facing her potential immigration to the United States. He talked about open fields and warm mansions. He talked about his dream, this urge to heal the inevitable wounds that’ll be caused by tension between humans and mutants. He talked and she listened, fascinated at this grand place he spoke of which was devoid of the hunger and fear surrounding her.

The lessons continued even when a band of roving mercenaries captured her, had their way with her, then sold her into a harem. Curious enough, Charles grew distant then. He seemed preoccupied, the biweekly visits degenerating into monthly ones. When he did visit her, Tessa was so starved for a friendly face that she hid her plight from him. She thought if he knew what happened, he’d be disgusted and she’d lose the only person keeping her sane.

Months passed. Using Charles’ axiom, she turned her hellish trial into an educational experience. By the time she killed off the last of her captors, she’d learned how to please and manipulate any man or woman. She learned how to read people without her telepathy. She learned how to exploit the weak and undercut the strong. As her dead mistress sank into the ornate bathtub filled with water and blood, Tessa swore to never be used again.

Then Charles called to her, said he had some old army friends who could pick her up and bring her to his new school if she wanted. Gee, sit in a small palace full of dead people or get away from this terrible life. Tough choice. She packed the bare essentials--a bag full of money--and left.

He stayed true to his word. He gave her a roof over her head, food to eat, lessons to learn, and a cause to fight for. “The X-Men,” he said, “will be a shining example of the good mutants can accomplish.” She was his first student and he deemed it appropriate to prepare her as the first X-Man.

“Or X-Woman,” he laughed.

But all was not well. She kept a small part of her mind secret from him and he interpreted the secret as darkness. No amount of cajoling, bribing, psychic probes, or other subterfuge shed light on the patch of unknown. Impressed, Charles backed off and imagined new possibilities for Tessa.

She was the perfect student: astute, disciplined, perceptive, quick. Mostly by herself, she harnessed her mutant powers--not much remained to be taught. This independence and their relationship made her a perfect candidate to be a spy. See, his encounter with his old friend, Magnus, conjured terrible premonitions, and for the first time, he realized that his dream couldn’t be accomplished by inner goodness and heart. Enemies--angry mutants, malevolent politicians, human bigots--didn’t play fair, and to combat the unfair playing field, he needed someone he could trust to best the evils he didn’t want the X-Men to fight.

No, Xavier didn’t believe in bloodshed, but he did believe in preparing for all challenges, challenges like Sebastian Shaw and the increasingly disturbing Hellfire Club. She was his first student, but Charles changed his mind about the first X-Man part.

“My X-Men are heroes. Tessa, you are a spy. Their lives will be defined by honor, yours by your capacity to betray.”

She loved him like the father she never had. She saw the determination in his eyes and wanted badly to see his dream through no matter the cost. Just days before her eighteenth birthday, handcuffs bound her wrists while a collar choked her neck. Her rigid discipline impressed the Hellfire Club’s masses, and in the ensuing fierce bidding war , Sebastian Shaw, with some far away coaxing from Xavier, claimed her.

Through the years, she served Shaw in many capacities from advisor to lover, but she never forgot her true purpose. No matter the debauchery or treachery, she observed and reported pertinent information to Xavier. Sometimes, getting information required bartering, and in the Hellfire Club, currency came in three kinds: money, sex, and power.

Tessa traded in sex, sex with her, sex with someone she owned, sex in public, sex in groups, sexual fetishes, sex in general, sex with generals. Her body wasn’t hers anymore, just another vehicle to achieve a desired end. She tried to ignore the emptiness building in her, but even her detached mind couldn’t refuse the truth: she tired of her traitorous task.

She yearned for an existence beyond the Hellfire Club, beyond Charles’ battles. The constant weights of spying, upholding her image, and assisting Sebastian grated on her bones. For so long she went without happiness, and for the days to come, none flowed her way. Had she been a weaker woman, perhaps she could’ve derived a drop of fulfillment from the nights of bondage, but her eidetic memory assured a place for her horrors, trauma, and purpose.

She couldn’t lose herself no matter how hard she tried. She entrenched herself too far in the Hellfire Club, and to up and leave would not only jeopardize Xavier but also herself. Her recourse? Endure the times and hope for better ones. Tessa wasn’t needy, but even her morale had a limit, even she needed to be assured of the light beyond the darkness.

Too far into Xavier’s dream, too far progressed into her powers to forget, too far into this seedy world to escape.

Too far to stop--the story of her life.

The story took a maddening turn when she tried to stop. Mastermind, the Dark Phoenix, and the Inner Circle were involved, and Tessa, scared out of her wits by the power Jean Grey wielded, warned Xavier about his prized student’s impending corruption at Mastermind’s hands. Only Xavier wasn’t there, not even a mental blip or an answering machine--the man she considered a father abandoned her.

That’s when the bulk of this symphony composed itself.

Abandoned by her mentor. Surrounded by her enemies. Crushed by the weight of her duties. As Emma Frost could attest to, months of torture and interrogation would break the toughest and most loyal of soldiers. Tessa braved the unwitting torture in increments of years. No light at the end of the tunnel. No hope for a better tomorrow. With Xavier absent, no one to guide her.

No reason to continue fighting for the Professor’s dream.

Tessa broke, and she was glad. The love and respect for her teacher soured into hate and resentment for her slaver. Yes, slaver. He treated her like the Hellfire Club treated their slaves. Slaves, to exist only for the master’s purposes. Slaves, to be present only when master willed it. Slaves, to serve without question. Tessa served without question and walked amongst the lions because Xavier told her so. And now, after the Dark Phoenix fractured the organization, after that Jean Grey clone Madelyne Pryor shook the ranks, Tessa sensed a chance to orchestrate her revenge against her master.

Before she came to the United States, she swore to never be used again. She broke her vow and look where it led her. No more. She repurposed herself, and while the drop of contentment eluded her, she didn’t loathe her continued breathing anymore. She didn’t get up every morning and ponder the advantages of slitting her own throat.

What a plus.

The revenge took shape. The more she plotted, the more she realized that killing Xavier wouldn’t be enough. His status in the mutant community ensured an immediate promotion to martyr should he die. The handful of new X-factions--New Mutants, X-Factor, X-Force--made him untouchable through the Hellfire Club, if only because of the potential retribution. Any successful strike against him would have to come at an opportune time and from many fronts.

Tessa got to work.

Contacts from the former (and now deceased) Senator Robert Kelly to street-level drug pushers filled her computer-like mind. She solidified her relationship with each person, never quite sure when they’d come in handy. Her analytical powers amassed an impressive fortune through the stock market. With the rise of the internet and the corresponding lax in network security, she planted backdoor entrances into many high-tech government projects, in particular the secretive Weapons Plus Project and S.H.I.E.L.D. Using her array of data gatherers, she created a profile for each enemy the X-Men faced and evaluated their effectiveness. Hacking into the mansion’s database, she stole information about team organization and lesser battles.

Knowing the Hellfire Club’s weaknesses (backward thinking and constant bickering), she extrapolated the organization’s impending demise and used its slow downfall to further her scheme by feeding information to a returned Charles Xavier. The perceived loyalty allowed him to focus on other agendas--Apocalypse, intergalactic conflicts, alternate dimensions--and leave her alone, content to have her monitor a crippled nemesis.

Armed with a vault of knowledge, Xavier’s faith, and a veritable fortune, Sage waited.

Selene, the immortal Black Queen of the Hellfire Club, provided an opportunity. During another one of her bids for supremacy, the part-time mystic full-time harlot ran afoul Amanda Sefton, or as the X-Men database called her, Magik, Ruler of Limbo. Further research revealed Limbo to be a nexus between the planes of earthly existence. Those who wished to cross from the “Otherworld” must pass through Limbo unless under extraordinary circumstances. Why? Because much of the Otherworld didn’t like the physical world. In fact, one of the Otherworld’s most notorious figures, Belasco, had quite a history with the X-Men, including but not limited to a near successful demonic assault on earth.

Tessa tapped the mercurial Selene to connect her with Belasco. After her tenth orgasm, the witch relented and summoned one of sorcerer’s messengers. What began as a fleeting dialogue snowballed into the plot before her.

Thirsty for revenge, Belasco pledged his services but made it known that he couldn’t act unless freed from his hell dimension. To free him, he needed an artifact safeguarded by Magik, and to get the artifact? That sent a deviously intrigued Selene, acting on Tessa’s behalf, to the doorstep of Dane Whitman, the Black Knight and trusted associate of the Otherworld’s forces of good.

Amazing what a willing smile could get a girl--Selene went from unknown visitor to bedroom buddy in under twenty minutes. After having her way, she drained his soul and reanimated the body with one of Belasco’s demonic minions. The demon wasn’t very smart and Selene had to put it in its place, but since then, he played the role of subversive to the hilt.

“You’re motivated,” Selene grinned at Tessa after completing her task, “When have you independently moved against the X-Men?”

“Today.”

The terse reply amused the Black Queen. Sensing a spectacular show in the wings, Selene perched herself in Tessa’s bed... literally. Twenty four hours a day she stayed in Tessa’s room, unabashedly prying for hints. Tessa being Tessa never tipped her hand, and by the second week, Selene acquired a new respect for the one she termed Sebastian’s concubine.

Yes, a new respect and a whole load of frustration.

Weeks ground into months. People whispered about the strange living arrangement. Both proud women carried on, Tessa refusing to sleep elsewhere and Selene refusing to leave. The mischievous teasing evolved, now a contest of will, restraint, and manipulation. Tessa worked on her magnum opus; Selene poked about with eyes and telepathy. Like a game of cat and mouse, they scurried around each other till one night, Selene caved.

Well, she didn’t exactly cave: she went stir crazy.

Let it be known that while Selene was immortal, she didn’t have the patience of one. As Tessa slipped into her bed, the Black Queen seized her by the shoulders. The question about the X-Men danced behind midnight dark eyes but she held it back. Pale moonlight painted Tessa’s milky white skin, highlighting her ample features against a background of nothingness. Shadows covered most of Selene’s face, showing just enough to reveal a feral fury.

They fucked through the night, the only demands the demands of their lust. It wasn’t happiness, it wasn’t even contentment, but an evening of no cares lifted both women’s spirits. She wouldn’t admit it, but Tessa needed a good, hard toss in the sack more than the skittishly bored Selene. When they finished, their bodies gravitated to opposite sides of the bed. Afraid to let the feeling go away, neither slept, instead they lay there, quiet, quiet to the point where breaths couldn’t be heard.

As the sun rose, Tessa broke the silence.

“I am leaving.”

“For good?”

“For good.”

Selene flipped her hair back. “Your plan better be worth it, Tessa. I didn’t waste months of my life to watch you pay some slob to pick off Xavier two blocks away.”

“Thank you, Selene.”

The climax started with an old enemy, Elias Bogan, and a distressed cry to the Professor. Storm came to Tessa’s rescue, and like that, she integrated herself into the X-mansion. Slowly, the team as a collective entity placed their trust in her, spurred by a budding friendship with Storm. Xavier seemed glad to have Tessa back, but the same couldn’t be said for everyone else. She gauged the reactions she received and adjusted her plans.

Conclusion? Phoenix, Wolverine, White Queen, Gambit, and Rogue had to be removed. The rest were easily predictable based on personality models. She needed a catalyst to get everything going, and Vargas supplied it in the form Elisabeth Braddock’s corpse.

Psylocke’s death prompted important happenings. The Beast quit. The morale in Storm’s team worsened enough for them to return from hunting Destiny’s diaries. Belasco trapped Elisabeth’s departing soul and gave the false Black Knight an opportunity to go to Limbo and retrieve the needed artifact from Magik.

Coincidentally, the Weapons Plus Project completed its new base on the half destroy shell of Asteroid M. Unnoticed by even Xavier, Polaris endured a secondary mutation as well as mental instability. Hmph. Asteroid M. Polaris. Missing ingredient? Magneto, but the old sack of bones hid himself in the ruins of Genosha, a defeated shadow of his imposing self. If the real deal wouldn’t step up to the plate, she’d have to get creative.

No Magneto? No problem. With an ally like Belasco, one didn’t let small details like a missing supermutant get in the way of the best laid plans. A phone call to Selene did the trick. In the span of two days, Tessa obtained a vial of the new guy’s (Xorn’s) blood, sent it to the still mightily amused Black Queen to give to Belasco, and waited for the mystical possession to take hold.

Yes, mystical possession--this was the leap of faith into the supernatural. Though Tessa hadn’t quite bought into magic, she realized that the most successful attacks against the X-Men included technology and mysticism. Enemies like Apocalypse and Fitzroy integrated mutant powers, supernatural phenomena, and bleeding edge science into their plans. Just because she herself didn’t understand the methods behind magic didn’t mean she shouldn’t employ them.

And why Xorn? Being the X-Men’s newest addition, he needed an adjustment period during which most strange behavior would be ignored. Turning an unwitting mutant into the Master of Magnetism drifted into the strange category, so the best--and only--victim was Xorn. Anyone else and Tessa’s plans would’ve been discovered too soon.

The last thing she needed was an early discovery. That’s when she created the handle, Attrior, which, as anyone could readily see, was an anagram for “traitor.” Poetic, wasn’t it? A little obvious but poetic, just because Tessa noticed the X-Men always missed the obvious.

The plan moved faster.

She pulled the Dark Beast into the mix, both for his unrivaled genius and hate of Emma Frost. Through him, the mutant collars were purchased and the plan to eliminate the White Queen’s existence blossomed.

Using old contacts from the Hellfire Club’s drug trade, Tessa procured a new substance known as Kick. She sent some to the Dark Beast to enhance. When Lorna Dane crashed to her lowest (after Alex Summers rejected her affections), a dose of Kick mysteriously found its way to her room under the guise of heroine. Some telepathic adjustments later, Polaris gave it a shot and the rest was history.

Vargas, still alive and fuming over his defeat, jumped at the chance to get his revenge against Rogue. A call to Bella Donna, Gambit’s greedy ex-wife, claimed the woman’s cooperation with money. The plan? Lure Gambit to New Orleans (Bella Donna’s job), attack him (Vargas’ task), and when news got back to the mansion, Rogue and however many others would fly to his rescue.

To remove Wolverine and the Phoenix, the Weapons Plus Project and Fantomex came into play. Wolverine’s past always shrouded his better judgment, and Tessa counted on Fantomex to entice the Canadian and put him in grave danger, thereby prompting the Phoenix to rescue him. Being a money hording prick, Fantomex agreed to the task.

Tessa wound up her pawns and watched them chitter chatter away. Oh, she coordinated, but for the most part, she wanted each facet to bring an element of randomness to the plan, randomness that deflected suspicion from her. Also didn’t hurt to notice that supervillains did their best when they thought themselves to be working alone.

Seriously, how many times had those like Magneto and Arcade teamed up only to fall flat on their faces due to egos, incompetence, and betrayal? Too many times, and Tessa avoided the pitfall all together by keeping each faction mostly separated.

What followed... a masterpiece, truly a thing of beauty and one for the ages. Not everything went right, but in the span of days, ever since Psylocke’s return forced her to act, Tessa blew apart Xavier’s dream. Most of the X-Men met or were going to meet their demise soon--that’s where Belasco and his army came in. After she duped the S.H.I.E.L.D. planes into dropping bombs on downtown Manhattan, mutant-human relations would never ease. Emma Frost had been outed, and with her connection to the Xavier Institute, it was only a matter of time before the school itself was outed too. No, Charles Francis Xavier didn’t die, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Killing his dream, however, more than sufficed.

Others defined her life. Whether a harsh mistress or a deceptively benevolent master, she never lived for herself. She bled for others, but today, she bled for herself. She might not have lived life for herself, but she made damn well sure she’d die for herself.

So here she was, back to where she began: the end, thrown out of a window by one of Gambit’s exploding, kinetic cards. Oddly, free falling to her doom, Tessa felt the elusive fulfillment she yearned for but never attained. In one fraction of a second, her soul leapt at her success, at her happiness, at her contentment. It wasn’t much, but for a woman who’d never tasted such sweet sensations, it was a revelation beyond anything she’d experienced.

Forty feet to the ground. Tessa exhaled. Wouldn’t be long now. Smash, then blissful ignorance to the can of worms she’d opened. Her symphony ruined an entire species but seeing the look of shock and surprise on Xavier’s face was worth it.

She hit, but despite shock and breathlessness, she didn’t die. Dark eyes refocused themselves moments before another impact slightly jarred her vision.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sage.”

Emma Frost--recognized that arrogant voice anywhere. Wasn’t the Dark Beast suppose to occupy her? What was the diamond clad White Queen doing here in front of a windshield-less car and cradling Tessa like she’d just jumped four stories high and snatched her from a gory splat?

“You’re welcome,” Emma sniped, laying her down on the broken sidewalk. “While your computer of a brain is busying itself, I have a mad man to take care of.”

Oh, Tessa already digested everything. The blonde’s status meant both McCoy’s efforts and her own with the self-destruction of the X-Men’s planes hadn’t killed her. Emma’s survival suggested Psylocke’s, and with Psylocke usually came her twin brother, who unlike the X-Men actually knew what to do to overcome Belasco and this false Magneto. Emma disappeared into the Empire State Building, and for now, had no inkling of Tessa’s role in tonight’s chaos. Saved, and by all people, saved by the White Queen. Weirder things had happened before.

Gathering herself, Tessa shuffled into the driver’s seat of the burnt Eclipse. Another oddity: Mystique, hunched over in the passenger side, quivered like a junkie.

When the door opened, the scrunched up metamorph blurted, “God, you’re fucking insane, Frost.”

“Sorry, but I am not Emma Frost.”

The car peeled out and Mystique’s frantic yelp reverberated into the night.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 49

Title: Loose n' Low

Chapter 48: Loose n’ Low

Americans were crazy.

Brian decided on the observation when a bunch of very American looking planes dropped the boom, boom, boom on down-freakin’-town Manhattan--why, Captain America would be spinning in his grave if he was dead... which he wasn’t, so he was just probably spinning, period. The civil servant who decided on the stupid act should be dragged out to the street, beaten with cinder blocks, and then shot in the crotch repeatedly until he (or she, in this politically correct society) died from it.

Strong sentiments, but he did have his reasons.

For starters, the bombs caught Brian at a bad time, which was to say, while battling a demon-cum-Magneto. Exorcising a rogue spirit was difficult to do when it flung large, and often sharp, projectiles at the exorcists. And the good Lorna Dane, instead of helping, joined the demon in the flinging of metal, altogether ruining Brian’s day even further. Add to that a sudden sense of foreboding prickling in the back of his mind and out came a dissatisfied ruler of everywhere not earth.

A bullet whizzed by mere centimeters from Brian’s head. Ah yes, and the ski masked marksman, couldn’t forget him, the coward and the weak link of the bunch.

The former Captain Britain thinned his lips. “Stephen, how long until you can drive the corrupted spirit out?”

“At this rate?” grunted the Sorcerer Supreme. Iron beams, wild debris, and pot shots kept him busy, each trying in their own little ways to hurt him. Mid-flight, he put on a burst of speed and lost some homing weapons around a corner. “Never.”

Magneto and Polaris had shields, but the weasely gunman didn’t. “Get the spell ready. I can buy you a few minutes.”

Like an angry god, Brian harkened back to his superheroing days, flew high into the sky, and dive-bombed onto the Empire State Building’s roof. Caught flatfooted by the immense shaking after contact, Fantomex stumbled to keep his balance, and during his stumbling, a screaming fast fist collided with his jaw.

A lesser man would’ve died.

Fantomex buckled, unconscious.

“Jump!” yelled Brian’s instincts, and jump he did, just in time to avoid iron rods burying themselves into the cement where he used to be. Despite his superhuman speed, the combined efforts of these two magnetism mutants made him feel like cheap target practice. Not wanting to fly away (ending his effective diversion for Strange) or get impaled (pretty obvious why), Brian tore a chunk of the wall off and batted metal away like a master cricket player.

“Papa, I’m tired of him.”

“So am I,” Magneto replied, his attention split between trying to locate Strange again and trying to do away with the burdensome Braddock. “Enough games. Even Captain Britain is flesh and blood, and where there is blood...”

Brian dropped his concrete slab and gripped his chest. Suddenly sluggish, the blonde man struggled for breath. His veins dilated with great effort. Vision doubled up. His entire body threatened to pop like an over inflated balloon. Couldn’t think right. Right hand numbed.

“Flesh and blood. We are all flesh and blood.”

Ding.

The elevator doors slid away and out strode Emma. “Not me, darling.”

Lorna gleefully clapped her hands. “So cute,” she squealed, “Like an action figure!”

That, of course, didn’t set too well. “How about some of this action in your figure?”

*****************

“Holy shit on a stick.”

Was that Emma Grace Frost jump kicking Magneto and this other lady like a ninja? Slack-jawed, Yvette continued filming and ignored the cries of a hungry baby some feet behind her.

*****************

The yelp labored to her ears, yet as soft as it was, Rogue knew who it came from.

“Mama,” she whispered.

Behind the flames, battle, and chaos, tires screeched, carrying her mother’s surprise away parabolically. “’Ro, can ya stand?”

Wincing, Storm leaned against her friend. “Barely.”

Hated doing this, hated leaving the team behind, but, “Ah think Mystique’s in trouble.”

“What does Mystique have to do with anything?”

The glare meant Ororo was unhappy. The dripping acid in her voice burned. Unconsciously, as if the metamorph’s name sullied her, she edged away from Rogue. If she had the strength, Ororo would’ve huffed and stomped, but for now, she resorted to scowling.

Rogue didn’t appreciate the sour mood. “Yer overreactin’.”

“I shouldn’t be? Child, this woman you call mother has brought you nothing but grief, and by that look in your eye, you’re going to her aid again. Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

“But-”

“But nothing,” Ororo snapped, “Mystique doesn’t deserve your notice, let alone your love.”

Being the headstrong girl she was, the more someone pushed Rogue one way, the more she rebelled out of principle. Taken by Lorna’s negative emotions, Storm pushed Rogue away from Mystique, and predictably enough, Rogue pushed back to return to Mystique’s banner. Maybe it was the cold words, commanding tone, or insults to her mama, but one weather witch upset a brunette to the point of outrage.

Of course, not that the point of outrage was far away to begin with

“You would save Mystique and ignore the X-Men?”

That sounded like a challenge. Rogue lifted her eyes and stared at Storm--yup, looked like a challenge too if the fierce, defiant stare had anything to add. If she was calmer, Rogue would’ve explained Mystique’s motivations. If there was more time, she would’ve said that the X-Men had each other but Mystique had no one, hence why she should go to her mother’s aid.

If, if, if. Here’s a good if: if Rogue took off after Mystique, would an injured Ororo be able to stop her? No? Good.

Not wanting to talk, Rogue followed the sounds of screeching tires and left her team leader, broken ribs and all, to simmer. Part of the conflict traced itself back to Lorna’s work, but the sad thing was that the words tumbling out of Storm’s mouth were true, unadulterated feelings about Mystique. Would she have said them without proper reason? Probably not, but hurt, angry, and desperate gave her enough motivation to voice her deep seated opinion, once which many X-Men shared.

Till now, Storm thought Rogue would choose the X-Men over her wayward mother. Something changed, and with all the terrible things that happened tonight, that something had to be a negative if only to fit in with the current trend.

What’s done was done. Rogue made her decision and Storm didn’t approve. Any contentions, conflicts of interest, and arguments would be squared away later if there was a team to go back to. Wind buoyed her up, and a few short breaths later, Storm re-entered the fray, glad to see Brian Braddock, Stephen Strange, and Emma Frost all working together with varying degrees of success.

This was what the X-Men should’ve been doing.

*****************

Blood pooled in his hands and spilled over onto the dust laden floor. He spit a phlegm-blood blend which was unfortunately more blood than phlegm. His hand reached around to his back, and right away, his fingers grazed where the bullet made its exit.

A hiss of pain escaped him.

“Gambit, can you hear me?”

“Oui,” he grunted. “Loud n’ clear, mon ami.”

Tessa unloaded on him, and even though he was fast, he wasn’t faster than two clips of bullets. As he charged and threw a card at her, one of her shots pierced his gut. The resulting explosion propelled her out the window and the resulting gunshot wound brought Remy to his knees. Maybe he should’ve been thanking God he wasn’t dead, but as blood gushed out of him, praying became the last thing on his mind.

He concentrated on breathing.

“Gambit, if you can release me, I can treat your wound.”

The Cajun brought his knuckles down on the cement to prop himself up. “Non. Tessa, da woman probably hit my stomach. Whatcha gonna do? Sew it up wit da hair on my head?”

“Tessa, how could she do this?”

“Remy dunno, but he t’ink she was mad you.”

Mad, the understatement of the century. As far as Remy could tell, Tessa never gave a voice to her emotions. She was a lot like Scott in that way, except she pulled it off with an aloof class and eerie consistency. Tears, he should’ve picked up on the ploy when she started crying. Women like Tessa only cried when they wanted something, but Remy had a soft spot for attractive, crying women.

Thinking with his dick cost him... again. If he looked closer, he might’ve picked up on the calculated steel and the much-too-passive body language that he recalled with too much clarity after the fact. She set him up and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

In Remy’s humble opinion, that alone made Tessa a good t’ief, but the thought was neither here nor there.

He gagged, and this time blood, no phlegm, came out of his mouth. Weak, his arms buckled and cement slapped his face. A familiar, comforting detachment touched him, and versus the agony he endured now, he embraced the escape.

“Listen to me!”

Mon dieu. “Be busy. Kinda dyin’ here.”

“You can cauterize your internal injuries with your powers.”

“Eh?”

“The pain will be immense, but the task is not impossible. Focus, Remy. If you create enough heat at the torn tissue, you can stop the bleeding and save yourself.”

Easy for him to say. What was this? A idea from Rambo or something?

“Don’t fade away, Gambit! The others are counting on you. Rogue is counting on you!”

Roguey. Aw, low blow right there, but then, “Dat’s why you da Prof, non?”

Couldn’t croak now since the man put Rogue’s name in his head. Stubborn girl would probably bust down the door and drag him from the afterlife if he so much as skipped a heartbeat. Stubborn girl, but sweet all the same, and Remy, in addition to having a soft spot for crying women, also had one for sweet, stubborn brunettes.

He concentrated like the Professor ordered. An intimate knowledge of his body and a bunch of experience in wounds of all types helped him envision the tears within him. Reaching beyond the overall burning, Remy guessed where he needed to focus his powers.

“Dis betta work, mon ami, else Gambit get mighty unhappy.”

Taking a deep breath, he charged all the regions of his wounds. Before the pain even hit, he blacked out.

***************

- To be continued...

Chapter 50

Title: Writing on the Wall

Chapter 49: Writing on the Wall

Déjà vu ambushed Mystique.

Lying on the cold grass of a demon infested park? Check. Woman straddling her? Check. Same woman threatening to kill her? Check. Oh hey, look, and there was Vargas again, still swinging his sword like a guillotine. The demons? Still dying, despite scads of them charging at him.

“What did you say?” Tessa, Sebastian Shaw’s plaything, squeezed her thighs around Mystique’s ribs: if the moving wasn’t so damned sexy, it would’ve been scary. However, sexy or not, behind those sunglasses, Tessa’s dark eyes sparkled dangerously. The gun in her hand--and aimed at Mystique’s forehead--translated into trouble.

Confused? Well, here’s the instant replay of recent events.

After Tessa took the wheel of the Eclipse and hustled back toward Battery Park, Mystique had a question: why Battery Park? Why not the Empire State Building where Magneto had to be stopped, where Polaris did something wacky, and where every other X-Man seemed to be? Weren’t the X-Men the same mutants who emphasized teamwork and meshing abilities?

Why Battery Park indeed. Demon-filled and Vargas occupied, that few square miles of green lost its family appeal and Mystique herself wasn’t keen on going back. In addition, crinkles in her jacket, the smell of burnt fabric, and bruises on her skin dampened Tessa’s well-groomed, ice-cool image. A little corner of a singed playing card clung to the bottom of her pant leg.

Curiouser and curiouser...

And then things started making sense.

Battery Park. Belasco. The Cajun in New Orleans. Vargas chasing said Cajun. Dark Beast hiring Mystique. Magneto turning New York upside down. Planes crashing. Cerebra being broken. Bombs lighting the city ablaze. None of it was a coincidence. For so much chaos to happen at the same time required a devious blueprint executed by a meticulously organized entity.

Tessa fit the archetype. Sure explained a lot too, stuff like going to Battery Park (perchance to get back up from Belasco), the singed playing card (a fight with the Cajun), not backing the X-Men (well, helping the ones you wanted to hurt was pretty pointless), and flipping out when Mystique murmured, “Smells like a traitor.”

Of course, she didn’t mean to say it out loud, but like a lot of other statements, she couldn’t take it back. On the plus side, Tessa drove much more under control than Frost, so when she pulled up on the emergency brake and ejected both of them from the blown out front window, Mystique only screamed in sheer terror as opposed to cowering.

When she opened her eyes, Tessa straddled her, gun drawn and face frowning.

Stop rewind. Play.

“What. Did. You. Say,” the cyberpath carefully enunciated.

The gun didn’t compel Mystique to answer. Suffice to say, if the gun didn’t do the job, then the mean stare, hugging leather thighs, and surrounding danger didn’t fare any better.

“You heard what I said,” smirked Mystique, “I’m just feeling proud of myself for figuring you out before the X-Men did, Attrior.”

Didn’t put a face to the name till now. A traveling woman like Mystique heard many names in a day, especially when dealing with loquacious mutants. She filed away the information for a later time, and the “later time” was now.

“You are self-assured in your assessment.”

“The Dark Beast talked... a lot. He wasn’t the best choice of accomplices.”

“Now, I will have to kill you.”

The smirk never faded. “You can try.”

Before the hammer dropped, Rogue crashed into Tessa’s side and imbedded her into a nearby tree. Hard to lose smugness when a super strength daughter stood, or rather flew, at the ready.

“She hurt you, Mama?”

A witty quip prepared to unload itself, but before it did, the commotion of cold steel divesting others of body parts numbed all thought. Demons went unintentionally soaring, flung from their previous spot by a scratched but otherwise unharmed Vargas.

Sword still humming of death, he pointed the weapon at Rogue and declared, “You!”

Her DNA shifted itself, realigning and reconfiguring to match Vargas’ unique genetic signatures. She became stronger than ever possible and time slowed in her mind. Her body tuned itself to a point beyond bleeding edge. A sick sensation made itself known in the bottom of her stomach, the same feeling she got whenever she assumed someone else’s life and abilities.

“Destiny’s child,” Vargas mumbled. He dismissively slapped away the few stragglers not felled by his onslaught. “I couldn’t kill your lover, but I will not make the same mistake with you. Come, taste my revenge before your taste your own blood.”

Mystique grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Don’t let him get to-”

With reckless abandon, the stubborn girl lunged forward. Things about Polaris, psychic attacks, and fighting smart instead of hard never made it out Mystique’s mouth. Frowning replaced talking, and after this, after killing Vargas once and for all, she’d sit down and give the girl a long lecture about the shit-for-tactics the X-Men seemed to be peddling. Come on, in one evening, she’d witnessed the mansion’s destruction, the team’s capture, two crazy ladies driving through Manhattan like it was drag race, and no real organized attempt to stop any of the present catastrophes.

Made Mystique wonder what she did wrong to constantly lose to these people.

The woman sighed and moved to assist Rogue, but the distinct sound of a gunshot zipping by where she was a second ago put her on high alert. Her eyes shifted to source of the disturbance.

Tessa.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“My life is complete. Every additional moment is a bonus.”

Shit, not another one of those suicidal types: one a day was one too many. Not wanting to be a target for another easy shot, Mystique dove into the foliage before another two came her way.

Tessa gave chase.

*****************

“Please sir, put the gun down.”

“No way, lady! Get me outta here and people don’t get shot!”

Meggan raised her hands in an unthreatening way and hoped he didn’t snap. The man was determined and that maddened gleam in his eyes disturbed her. With a gun in his grip and a child in his grasp, Meggan dared not risk a surprise maneuver. Should he kill the child, everyone here would probably go ballistic, which was the last thing she needed.

She tried the peaceful approach again. “Can I do something for you that will make you stop?”

“Yeah.” He waved the barrel of his pistol at the crowd gawking at him. “Tell ‘em to get out of my way and I’ll be gone. I don’t wanna kill no one, but,” and he pushed the barrel against his young hostage’s temple to highlight his statement, “I ain’t above it neither.”

“You do know that if the demons see you, they’ll eviscerate you and follow your scent back to us.”

Key words--“eviscerate” and “demons”--put the occupants of Frost Tower on edge. A ripple of murmurs rose over the oppressively warm air, and if possible, the stress level went up to the higher stratosphere. The man’s resolve faltered, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and pointed the gun at Meggan.

“You’re fuckin’ with me, lady. I don’t appreciate people fuckin’ with me!”

Meggan didn’t appreciate people pointing guns at her but she quashed her complaint. “Why do you want to leave? Don’t you realize how dangerous it is out there?”

“Don’t matter. My son’s down at Times Square and I just felt an earthquake or something. All these fuckin’ mutants can go to hell! I gotta find him!”

A desperate father, huh? The blonde sighed and closed her eyes. No decent human being refused such a request, but at the same time, his reckless devotion to his son put the greater community in danger. Undying love or selfish folly--whatever she chose to label this act as, Meggan couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that many lives and much happiness rested on her shoulders.

Already mutants and demons breached Frost Towers. If Brian didn’t hurry, they’d have to seek shelter elsewhere, and to walk out into the street in a large group of obvious humans meant certain doom. Was she really saving this man’s life for very long? Did this man even want to be saved?

Problem: if he left, others would want to leave too. Eventually, separate voices would degenerate what little order remained, and like that, everything would blow away.

Problem: if he stayed, he probably wouldn’t put the gun down. Bad things would happen and people would run out into the streets, screaming and crying like the wrecks they were.

Meggan hated moral dilemmas which were unfortunate consequences of the superheroine lifestyle. “Does your son have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” the man snapped, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? He’s not answering!”

Looking around, she lifted a phone from one of the people surrounding her. The woman didn’t seem to notice or mind. “Call him again,” offered Meggan. “Maybe he just didn’t have reception.”

Suspicious, the man shrank away and tightened his hold on the silently sobbing boy.

Meggan turned her charm on: smile comforting, eyes compassionate, shoulders relaxed. “Please? If you call him and no one answers, I promise I’ll let you go to Times Square.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” the blonde nodded.

She stepped closer to him, arm out and holding the cell phone. The sweating, gun totting man reached for the device, but he never made it there. When their fingers got close enough, a jolt of electricity passed from Meggan to the man--nothing powerful enough to kill him, but enough to make him lose consciousness for a short second or two. The gun, man, and boy all went their separate directions, and in no time, the policemen in the crowd stepped in to cuff the prone hostage taker.

Crisis averted, time to feel proud, but somehow, the stares many of the older people gave her chilled her bones. They questioned her decision, and for the first time, Meggan went face to face with an unadoring, skeptical public.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Everyone in London was so... so... grateful, but these Americans scowled and frowned like she stole their money clips. She helped them all, and if they lived to tell about it, they’d be thanking her in their stories. For now, they made her feel so small and petty, their questions and quiet outrage penetrating her already thin emotional armor.

Brian would’ve stood taller and descend down the stairs. Betsy would’ve spun on her heel and left. Meggan retreated, her posture devoid of her usual joy.

For better or for worse, she wasn’t used to rejection.

******************

- To be continued....

Chapter 51

Title: Diamonds

Chapter 50: Diamonds

Diamond resisted scratching like no other naturally occurring material. It’s crystalline structure, however, made it susceptible to breakage from violent impacts, like say, falling seventy stories onto concrete. Large, uncut slabs of diamond didn’t shatter as easily, owing their integrity to sheer mass and the lack of place for force to focus upon. With that said, under constant, extreme conditions, diamonds, even giant samples of diamonds, were breakable.

As Emma found out, the pounding of Lorna’s fists qualified as constant, extreme conditions.

She caught Polaris’ wrist and squeezed. Under the strain of such dense and tough material, a normal limb would’ve burst into a cocktail of shattered bone, torn flesh, and blood. Lorna giggled and threw a punch, which thanks to Betsy’s fighting prowess, found a new home in Emma’s other hand. Anyone else would’ve been yelling for Emma to let go but not Lorna, oh no, the daughter of Magneto giggled even harder.

“You’re tough, Emma!”

The devious sparkle in those words alarmed the blonde.

As well they should’ve. “Not tough enough though.”

Still giggling, Lorna smashed her forehead against her opponent’s face. So mighty the hit that it released Emma’s holds and catapulted her through two decorative pillars. The giggling continued without slowing.

“Papa, did you see that? She can’t even hurt me!”

When no one answered, she turned around and gawked at her father’s convulsing body suspended in midair. Captain Britain below and his cohort far away did a bunch of chanting. Storm, recovered and looking for trouble, hurled lightning bolts at Magneto’s fading shields. All three people looked to be doing a good job hurting Lorna’s papa, and Lorna didn’t like people hurting her papa.

“Stop!” she screamed, tears falling from her eyes, “STOP!”

The very earth shook as Lorna, pissed off and desperate, took another hit of Kick. Sewer pipes and subway rails broke from their underground lairs. Statues, billboards, parking meters, and cars lifted into the skies. Her chest hurt and blood wouldn’t stop pouring from her nose, but the power she wielded eased the uncertainty like a childhood blanket.

She went higher into the sky and prepared to punish these trespassers for hurting Papa.

Meanwhile, Emma examined her hand. The dimming moonlight revealed a repulsively beautiful series of hairline fractures within her body. No pain, no worry, just a bland observation that if Lorna struck her a few more times, something was going to break into a million pieces. The two resounding falls and the Hulk-like hits took their toll on Emma’s thought to be indestructible body.

Since when did Lorna become Hulk-like? Since when did her powers surpass Magneto’s? Since never, and since now, Emma worked her brain like never before.

The new abilities. The organized, systematic destruction of everything X-Men. The look on Mystique’s face back at Battery Park like a light bulb went off. Hell, her appearance and cooperation. Magneto and Polaris, working together. Betsy’s return and the underlying tension in the mansion all week. Emma’s own capture by Dark Beast. The Blackbird self-destructing for no reason. Tessa falling out of one of the world’s tallest buildings. And finally, those words... Tessa’s fateful words...

“I have found a disturbing trend on the premises of late. Because I only have conjectures at this point, my words to you are simple: I will be watching your every move.”

At the time, it sounded like a threat. Emma knew better, and after so many days, she puzzled out Tessa’s cryptic missive.

It wasn’t a threat but rather an arrogant, “I know what’s going on and you don’t” taunt designed to make Emma worry about herself and lose track of the subtle troubles brewing. Not like the taunt was needed seeing as how Emma busied herself with Betsy and their bond, but under normal circumstances, the blonde would’ve consumed Tessa’s grumblings and become way too preoccupied. Betsy’s return rendered the words useless, but no way Tessa could’ve known that beforehand. Like the girl scout she was, she accounted for every contingency and acted with the utmost care.

This time, her care revealed her.

Not like the revelation did any good long after the bombs, literally and figuratively, dropped. What if all this smacked of Tessa’s cool, calculated touch? What if Emma was undoubtedly right? Her body still contained hairline factures, Lorna still readied herself to turn the roof into a metal wasteland, and try as she might, Emma couldn’t outmuscle or outmaneuver the green haired harpy.

Unless, of course, she telepathically attacked Polaris.

Flesh reclaimed the hand. She expected discomfort simply because her diamond body had the fissures. Incredibly, her skin and bone self suffered no consequences. The sigh of relief froze in its tracks when Emma couldn’t feel Betsy’s presence anymore. Her instincts flipped the panic button but her mind held herself down. Panicking was exactly the thing not to do--it didn’t shed any light on Betsy or help Emma out of this life and death quagmire.

Storm, watching the horror of projectiles rising from the ground to impale them all, called the fiercest tempest she could and hoped for the wind, rain, and thunder to shield them. Metal paid the elemental obstacles no heed and continued on like missiles.

Against the backdrop of darkness, both Brian and Stephen uttered the final words of their spell. A red glow swallowed Magneto like a fire, and as if doing it would stop his suffering, he tore his helmet off. What lay beneath was something frightening, something disfigured and definitely not Magneto. His clothes ripped, done away by expanding mass. His eyes and mouth spewed an icy blue fog.

The metal kept coming.

Pulling herself up, Emma stood against Ororo’s fury and reached into Lorna Dane’s splintered mind. A true X-Man might’ve been interested in her life story and her reasons for going postal, but Emma wasn’t an X-Man, not even an X-Woman. She was a teacher, and teachers protected their students, the same students Lorna endangered. Were there extenuating circumstances? Probably. Could Lorna be manipulated? Sure. Was there a peaceful solution? Of course.

Emma, however, wasn’t up for exploring her options.

As strong as Lorna was, as powerful as had become, as high as she was on drugs, she had no mental barriers, at least none that posed an experienced telepath any trouble. With an overloading mental blast, Emma shut down Lorna’s hummingbird-like mind and watched the woman--and her metal minions--collapse, the metal to the churned up sidewalk and the woman herself through the Empire State Building’s roof.

Casually, Emma strolled over to the impressive hole to critique her handiwork. Low and behold, a knocked out Lorna had landed not an arm’s length from a bound and collared Charles Xavier. The old man seemed none worse for the wear, but not far from him, a certain Cajun looked to be in a bad way.

“Emma,” the Professor coughed as he spat out chalky dust, “You are truly a sight for sore eyes.”

“And you’re a sore sight for my eyes.”

A sharp piercing shot through Emma’s back. Without her consent, a liquid injected into her body. Before she even turned around, her face ran hot and the minds of the city howled into her ears. When she did turn around, Esme Stepford stood behind her, shocked but concurrently proud. Thoughts and emotions visibly manifested themselves to Emma, thoughts like Brian’s worry, Stephen’s surprise, Esme’s glee, Charles’ relief, and Betsy, where the hell was Betsy?

“I killed someone,” Esme called out to the still retching former Magneto, “I killed Emma Frost!”

Magneto didn’t seem impressed. Actually, he didn’t even respond. Emma’s weakened knees failed to support her frame and dizzying head. She heard her heart pounding and her breaths shallowing. Confused? No, she wasn’t confused. Her telepathy exploded into epic proportions, and one glance at Esme told her the story. Ghosts of the past, ghosts that touched the needle which held her death, appeared like the same ones in a Dickens novel.

Kick, a new drug tailored by McCoy and distributed by Tessa, burned at her mutant physiology, enhancing her abilities but also shorting out her body. The fatal injection was originally meant for Rachel Summers as a rite of passage into Magneto’s plans. Stuff happened, Esme still had the needle, and now, she plunged it into Emma, her teacher.

As long as her blood distributed the substance, Emma would very quickly exhaust her biological resources and work herself to death. And Esme danced at the prospect while everyone looked on like idiots.

*Betsy, where are you?*

Betsy would know what to do. At least, if she didn’t, Emma could apologize for leaving her behind to face Vargas alone. In hindsight, that was probably a bad decision.

*Betsy, answer me!*

The Stepford sister danced and pranced out into the open where Ororo’s tempest slowed. “Can’t you see? I did it, Magnus! I killed an X-Man!”

A brutish roar deafened Emma. Mixed into the roar was a girlish peel of fear followed by gargling noises. The Kick kicked in, knocking Emma over onto her back. Poor, foolish Esme, the little femme fatale weakly struggled for air against “Magneto’s” boot which planted itself over her throat. Only when he snarled at her did she finally realize the man she wanted to please wasn’t home. Only too late did she regret pumping Emma, her teacher and the person most likely to save her, full of drugs.

Moving blood spread the deadly Kick. Emma’s veins tired. As her final recourse, she returned to her diamond form and hoped her secondary mutation would cease her bodily functions, enough for her to survive. The customary icy calm greeted her and she waited for death’s terror to leave, but it didn’t. Emotions seconds ago remained overwhelming; her telepathy didn’t retreat.

Kick... the substance changed her, perhaps even at the genetic level. With McCoy’s stamp of approval, anything was possible, but a drug was still a drug and it required a biological medium for it to operate: a diamond lattice didn’t fit the bill. Whatever genetic flaw preventing Emma from accessing her psychic powers and from feeling sensations went the way of the dinosaurs and left her with this.

No more cold logic, no more numbness, and damn it, she was just warming up to having no empathy. Being the White Queen and doing White Queen-esque things was much easier to pull off when she didn’t have a conscience in the way.

Ok, beside the point now. Although Emma had an excuse for being shocked, stunned, and otherwise appalled, everyone else on this battleground didn’t. Esme still wasn’t dead, this gross Magneto wasn’t good news, and demons still infested Battery Park. Yeah, despite the wayward Stepford’s act, Emma couldn’t bear to see another student die.

Ruined, jailed, and or persecuted? Sure, but killed? No.

“Get going!” Emma shouted. “That thing isn’t going to lay down and die by itself!”

The declaration ignited Brian and Ororo, but Strange, levitating in the background, stayed put. “I sense a formidable presence approaching.”

A ball of brilliant fire passed through where the Sorcerer Supreme was. Somehow, despite the pyrotechnics, all the man ended up with was a singed cape and a slight cough. The fireball continued, flashed, rotated, and then broke apart, spewing steaming embers into the rain as it framed two humanoid forms.

“A formidable presence?” chuckled Belasco, his voice coming from the steam and smoke, “There was a time when you’d call me worse things, Strange. What prompted my demotion?”

Demon on the roof. Demon in the air. Good ol’ Brian Braddock had his irrefutable proof of who drove this devious engine of destruction. As always, hearing a friend’s assessment and experiencing the fact were contrasting creatures. “You might as well return to your domain, Belasco. You cannot win here!”

“Any place else, your highness, and I would give an ounce of credence to your words, but not in the physical realm of your pathetic mortals. You lay claim over the Otherworld, and Otherworld this is not. My subjects will overrun this place and make it mine. There is nothing you can do, Braddock spawn! Demons pour forth, your allies are in ruins, and best of all...”

He tugged on a strip of leather, and out from the last of the cloudiness emerged Betsy, claws extended, tongue elongated and pointed, wide eyes beady, and shadows enfolding her like armor.

“Best of all,” Belasco repeated while running his hand through her hair, “I get to witness an interesting family reunion.”

To the near unrecognizable, slathering abstract attached to a hook, Brian whispered, “Sis?”

Belasco released the leash and Betsy was upon him like a starving animal, flying through the air and landing on his body while swiping, gnashing, and every other kind of striking. The demonic magnus motioned to the shadow of Magneto, gesturing at the downed Esme and pantomiming a throat slash. “Finish the girl.”

Choices. Another snap decision forced its ugly way into Emma’s mind. No longer coldly logical and devoid of emotion, young love factored into her thought process. Save a girl who tried to kill her or reclaim the generous woman who wanted her? Let it be known that Emma was the White Queen, a vindictive, egotistical, selfish expression of humanity. Let it be known that while she dropped the mantle and assumed a more altruistic lifestyle, Emma Grace Frost remained as vindictive, egotistical, and selfish as ever, only now she had a conscience.

A small conscience.

The choice wasn’t even a choice.

Emma, fractured body and all, seized Betsy’s clawed hand. “Bad, Betsy, don’t hit your brother like that.”

Her eyes held no hint of recognition much less any humor. With a saliva slurping hiss, the demon that was Betsy dropped her assault on Brian and went after Emma.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 52

Title: The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 51: The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Devastation divested many Manhattan buildings of their luster. Engineering marvels crumbled under their own weight, unable to support the floors and floors of majesty because of their weakened foundations. Some unlucky buildings simply winked out of existence, here one moment, gone the next, death by bombs courtesy of the U.S. government. Whether half-gutted or knocked over, every structure bore a bit of the world’s fury.

“Sam?” Using her nose, Paige nudged her brother’s shoulder. “Sam, talk ta me.”

Instead of talking, Sam slid off the three people he protected with his blast field. He thudded to the innocuously pristine ground, his face strained but motionless, his limbs splayed about unnaturally.

“Ma Gawd, Sam! Say somethin’!”

“He’s not breathing,” Bishop noted as he thrashed about in his restraints. “Cannonball might’ve overexerted himself by protecting us from the explosion. His body is probably worn out and just given up. We need to administer CPR and fast.”

Alex, who remained quiet throughout the day’s drama, wobbled back and forth in his ice prison. He rocked so hard that he tipped over and shattered the melting frost like a hammer smashing porcelain. Dumbfounded, Bishop and Paige watched as the younger Summers brother pop his left shoulder out of its socket and painfully extracted one arm from his metal bindings. With a manly cry of pain, he rammed his upper arm into the pavement and righted the joint.

Still wordlessly, the man walked over to a fallen Sam and administered first aid like a trained and experienced paramedic.

Bishop and Paige looked at each other, blinked, and then looked at Alex again.

“Um, how we gettin’ out?”

“I don’t know,” Bishop mumbled, “But I’m not doing what he just did.”

*****************

Every story had a bad guy. Every story had a climax. Every reader wanted the good guy to win. Stories were all fine and dandy but they held no water in real life. First of all, no one ever set out to be the bad guy, much less wake up and say, “Wow, I’m bad. I’m going to do unjustifiable things and bring carnage to this planet for no good reason.” What was this? A comic book? Second, like bad sex, not every occasion had a climax. More often than not, real life dramatics petered out into nothingness, the heat and passion of the moment long snuffed out.

Third? Sometimes, the good guys weren’t guys. Sometimes, the good guys were gals.

Rogue dipped under Vargas’ sword and charged into his gut. Her feet kept moving as she drove herself further into the Spaniard. The immovable object lost ground, and once he did, Rogue hefted him up a few inches and ran his back through trees, bathrooms, parked cars, and other miscellaneous obstacles. Annoyed, he brought the pommel of his sword down on her back once, twice, three times, but the brunette continued her trek.

She even snuck in a few sucker punches.

Again and again he pounded against her. Rogue coughed, each strike coaxing another spittle of blood from her mouth. Dogged determination saw her through, and now, run out of things to demolish, she set her sights and Vargas’s back on the surrounding monsters. Big, small, short, tall, gross, cute, five armed or four, they filled the role of “improvised weaponry” against Vargas.

A particularly spiky, ball-like demon with legs which resembled a puffed up blowfish looked like a tempting target. Rogue charged and the bloodcurdling scream she bellowed frightened the poor, cowardly thing. It waved its stubby hands in defeat, but when it saw no mercy coming its way, it ran for dear life.

Of course, ball-like things with malformed appendages didn’t run fast, but survival instincts added a helping of speed to its diet. It scurried behind a streetlight and tried to tuck its impressive gut in to fit behind the slim cover. Huff, huff, huff, suck it went, but all the huffing and sucking couldn’t shrink its girth. Terrified, it started mewing pathetically and spinning around in little circles.

And then Vargas collided into the light pole.

The tube of metal fell like a tree, uprooting cement and live wires. The pole acted as a rolling pin on dough, flattening the fat demon straight down the middle. Spiky protrusions met Vargas’ body but so thick was his skin that even the sharpest of outgrowths bent and snapped. While not drawing blood, this final attack did hurt, and by reflex, his prized sword dropped to the ground.

Lumbering off the man, Rogue scooped up his weapon and unsteadily held it over his head.

“We’ve been here before,” Vargas chuckled hoarsely, “Do you have what it takes to finish what you started?”

“Ah shoulda shut up when ah had the chance,” she said, prepared to bring the weapon down, “Ah ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”

Somewhere between the attack and the beheading, Vargas clapped his palms against the blade. Inches from his neck, the sword menacingly gleamed, a violent extension of Rogue’s darkest urgings.

“What makes you think a few feet of forged steel will stop me?”

His hands turned and yanked, throwing the sword backwards after Rogue unwillingly let go and he willingly so. Vargas himself bounced back up and grazed his opponent with a wild right hook. Duck, weave, jab to her stomach, one to her side, one to her side--she readied herself for another jab to the same side, and that gave him the split-second opening he needed to sock her jaw with a bone crushing sound.

Rogue stumbled into one of the park’s railings, the same ones used to prevent people from falling into freezing waters. Vargas pinned her down by firing a series of rapid kicks and punches into vulnerable, difficult to defend spots. Despite her attention devoted to defending, relentless blows hammered against her so hard the railing began to give way.

Creak.

Metal twisting.

Crunch.

Cement breaking.

The hits kept coming, the next stronger and faster than the last. A hand grabbed the back of her head and brought her face into a sharp elbow. Snapping back, she almost tumbled over the railing, but Vargas grabbed her shirt. With cocky smile and fist readied, he geared up for the final curtain.

“Give my regards to Destiny.”

Suddenly, Rogue’s half-lidded eyes sprung open. “She says hi.”

An unexpected knee to the groin hunched him over. Then, up and over he went, dark waters rushing up to meet him. Splash. The might of an ocean slammed him against jagged rocks. Harsh iciness made his entire body tingle, and while he didn’t doubt his physical conditioning or superior genetics, he realized that staying in these waters wasn’t a smart idea.

Throwing an arm around an outcropping, he slowly hauled himself out of the current. Only halfway up, a tremendous weight landed on his forearm and depressed his limb a good six inches into the stone.

Looming above him, Rogue locked onto his elbow. “Ah reckon ya got a choice, Mr. Vargas. Get outta Dodge or get dead.”

“You’ve been making the threat since we’ve met,” the man smirked, oblivious to the attempts to harm his chiseled body, “Even your mutant powers can’t slow me down.”

“Yer human, Vargas.”

“Homo sapiens superior.”

“Unless ya suddenly grew a pair o’ gills on me, ya still gotta eat, sleep, and breathe.” Her free hand pushed his head under water.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

Oh, Vargas didn’t want to submerge quietly. He struggled, but unsteady waves bashed at him, a current threatened to pull him under, Rogue had all of her weight on top of his arm, he couldn’t use his other one to grab hold of anything else, and damn was the water cold. He fought for breath, but the mutant girl’s strength seemed to be growing, perhaps gleaned from him by her power. Hm, probably spoke too soon about that annoying power earlier.

Just above him, just above the water’s surface, Rogue’s distortedly grim features bade him farewell. Yes, even homo sapiens superior needed to breathe, and while Vargas’s lung capacity far outstripped a normal human’s, he couldn’t exist indefinitely under water. He kicked, he wiggled, he battled, but he didn’t have the leverage to pull away or the wherewithal to break through to the surface. Lungs searing. Nose clogged. Eyes blurred and dimming. He floated in a world of nothingness suspended in the nebula of wakefulness and sleep. His heart raced, spurred on by adrenaline and mental panic.

If he could, he’d groan in frustration. Done in by water: how embarrassing. Water, the origin of life--funny how it spelled his doom. From water rose his species and to water now he’d return. Water... the maker and destroyer of nations... water... his tomb...

No glory, no honor, no cataclysm, just a desperate gargle, a bunch of bubbles, and then silence.

Breathe. Everyone had to breathe. Finally, Vargas succumb to the need and his lungs opened up to get a rush of life-giving air. Instead, water flooded his system. His muscles became rigid, all of them starved for air. He felt like his body was about to burst. A permanent chill soothed his aching throat and stuffed up his mind.

One more breath escaped him, and then he was still.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 53

Title: Chameleon

Chapter 52: Chameleon

Bobby staggered and hit his head against the improvised igloo he made. He did it: he didn’t get either him or Warren killed. Actually, speaking of Warren, didn’t someone shoot him before they landed in this building?

Of course and Bobby’s ice wasn’t helping the healing process. With his blood’s regenerative properties, Warren could survive the fatal gunshot. The harsh landing needed time to mend, but it wasn’t impossible. However, when the temperature of his surroundings fell below freezing and his already blue skin went purple, well, that was just too much even for him.

Shaking and bleeding, Warren huddled into a ball and tried desperately to warm himself. Noticing his friend’s state, Bobby started smashing a hole through the thick, thick ice in hopes of escaping and reaching warmer conditions. As he worked to produce something both of them could fit through, scores of high-pitched, bird-like calls grated against his ears.

He stuck his head out the smallish hole in time to see a grotesque, deformed lady with wings pop out of nowhere and swipe at his nose. He shrunk back far enough and took a page from Superman’s playbook: he breathed a ploom of freezing cold around his attacker. The high-pitched shrill and ominous hissing ceased as a big ball of ice went tink, tink, crash on its way down to the unyielding ground.

Bobby chuckled to himself. “Superman, you’re my hero.”

Suddenly, another demonic woman popped up before him, then another and another. “Gah!” he yelled, tumbling to his butt. Startled and not wanting to get startled again, he raised his hands and resealed the hole with a knee-jerk quickness.

“Shit, Warren, did you see that? What were those things?”

Whatever they were, Warren had enough on his mind. For instance, while Bobby went on a tirade about crazy, fanged women, Warren himself multi-tasked, bleeding, shivering, and observing at the same time. What he observed wouldn’t go over too well with his teammate.

“Bobby,” he hacked, “Up.”

Two pairs of eyes gazed at the dome’s ceiling. Translucent images crawled all over the opaque barrier like swarming flies. One, two, twenty--more and more latched onto the ice. In concert, the things let go an eardrum busting shriek and then began the arduous task of chipping through to their targets.

Bobby immediately scooted away from the walls. “Somehow, I don’t think they want to be friends.”

*****************

Her soulsword cut through a mutant but two others took his place. While no longer rabid like the previous batch, this mob still had plenty of hostility and the ability to express it. The numbers game extracted its price on Amanda, and as she backed away to rest her tired arm, something unexpected clobbered the back of her head.

The attacker’s follow-through showed a brick red arm bulging with muscles. The mutants in front of her smiled at their successful ploy and closed in. Kick and there went her sword, flying end over end and sheathing itself in an unlucky mutant’s gut.

The duo held her tight. “Cocky bitch. Let’s see what happens after Mikey gets done with you!”

They whipped her around and there stood a stout man as wide as he was tall. His entire body had the brick red pigment of his arm. In other words, Mikey was built like a house... a brick house.

As this muscular specimen cracked his knuckles and wound back to knock her head off, a bunch of new enemies entered the fray: demons. Shades most of them, but their general ugliness shocked the mutants, making them waste their precious second to meet the threat at an advantage.

Neither Amanda or Meggan wasted that second.

Amanda slipped out of her captor’s hands and bolted to the back of the lobby. Meggan, finally emerging from one of the offices, waved her hands and commanded the earth to rise. A ten foot divide formed in the middle of the lobby, throwing mutants in random directions and providing a small obstacle for the shades to climb over. The soulsword hummed and appeared in Amanda’s hand.

Mikey and his two friends, the stragglers not stuck on the other side of the divide, listened to the agonizing cries of their allies as the shades devoured them.

“Now,” said Meggan to the three, “are you willing to stop your senseless rebellion and fight for survival?”

“If not,” Amanda added, still peeved over the considerable bruise her head sported, “I’d more than gladly let the demons gnaw the meat off your bones.”

“Amanda!”

“What? I’m being honest.”

*****************

Filming required all her focus and energy. Yvette catalogued every nuance with a museum curator’s meticulousness. Undoubtedly, much of this would end up on the cutting room floor, but she’d rather have more footage than not enough.

Oh, a destroyed McDonald’s sign! Something like that would make a great fade out or fade in shot. The audience all knew what McDonald’s was, and for many it was a comforting sight in a foreign environment. Think of the accent the burnt, broken, and unlit sign would have.

“I’m a genius.”

A breeze brushed her neck. Yvette let out a small gasp and swung her camera wildly. “Who’s there?” she demanded of the empty street.

A door to her left, one leading into the computer store, slammed shut. The breeze brushed against her neck again.

“Hello? Excuse me but this isn’t funny.”

Her feet moved her into the middle of the street where she’d get a chance to react should something leap out from the dead buildings. She pressed the night vision button and swept her surroundings.

No use. Small fires provided enough light to render the technology useless. Shadows brought to life by flickering flames mocked her. Hidden in their depths could be anything, but that anything revealed nothing.

The intact windows rattled. Another door slammed. The breeze didn’t stop.

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

Outside a shop, dimmed Christmas lights relit while a corny holiday tune when ding, ding, ding in the cold night. Loose boards and chunks of concrete fell, and just as quickly as the sounds were made, they silenced themselves. The breeze became a violent gale, extinguishing the surrounding fires in one unnatural expression of nature.

Yvette’s hand shook. Her artsy endeavor didn’t seem so artsy anymore. “Help! Somebody? Can anyone hear me? Help!”

Vacant rumbles of laughter quickened her pulse. Red eyes gleamed and blinked, popping up in alleys, behind cars, and in anywhere else darkness made its home. Hundreds of eyes gleefully followed her terrified steps. She turned to run but those eyes were everywhere, suffocating her with nothing but their presence.

Tears gushed. “Oh God,” she softly cried, “Oh God... please, don’t hurt me. I’ll give you whatever I have just leave me alone...”

A cloud passed overhead and blocked the last of the moonlight. Far away laughter closed in along with the eyes. Yvette fumbled the camcorder, almost dropping it. Her foot stepped into a pothole and her ankle twisted with a few audible creaks. The laughter increased in numbers and volume. Yvette stopped backing away, unable to drag herself another step.

Then, from beyond the darkness, a brunette ghost cradling a baby passed into the scene. Her evanescent body ignored the unrevealed monsters’ raging swipes. She broke their ranks and came straight toward her, a familiar human beacon in this hellish nightmare.

A hand solidified and grabbed Yvette’s wrist. “Don’t let go.”

Kitty phased and took the speechless camerawoman with her. Through Belasco’s demons they ran, now close enough to the things that their horrific countenances became real. Yvette attached the red eyes to decaying flesh and jagged teeth; despite her fear, she made sure to get a few good shots of the things. Claws flew at them but didn’t hurt; angry snarls filled the air. The darkness appeared to be eternal with the disappearance of the moon.

Looking up, Yvette prayed for the cloud to quickly move away. Only then did she realize that a cloud didn’t block the moon’s light--flying demons did.

*****************

Mystique shifted again, this time assuming a horrid form complete with holes in her cheeks, a pointy ribcage, and drooping skin. The legions of demons paid her no mind and stampeded past her like no one’s business. Figuring Tessa would assume she’d hightail out of this maelstrom, Mystique went against the waves of monsters and waded further toward the swirling red light, all the while using her powers to disguise herself.

But her powers wouldn’t do any good if Tessa used her telepathy. Rumor had it that she wasn’t the strongest of telepaths, and Mystique hoped the lack of strength would allow her a means of escape. Worry and caution dominated her: somewhere out there, a psychic mutant with a gun and a grudge hunted her. Had to move like a chameleon; had to stay hidden and far away.

Unlike the X-Men, Mystique subscribed to the notion of retreating. Conflict resolution didn’t have to end in a grizzle exhibition of fireworks, last-ditch efforts, and prerequisite carnage. Run away? Conflict resolved. Sure, retreat could be construed as cowardly; then again, William Hung could be construed as attractive so there wasn’t an accounting for taste.

A single gunshot pierced the back of Mystique’s thigh and exploded out the front. The sudden and vicious wound forced her to revert back to her blue-skinned, original form. She tumbled, rolling a handful of times and coming to a halt at the trunk of an overgrown tree. Missed shots which ended up digging into brittle bark spewed woodchips and put Mystique in scramble mode.

Dragging her leg, she labored to put obstacles between her and Tessa. Another wave of demons approached, and after inhaling a deep breath, her body remolded itself to look like them. She couldn’t stop her limp and wouldn’t look at the wound: acknowledging it only gave it more power to hurt her. Motivated by not wanting to become something’s after-midnight snack, her willpower kept her weaving past the monsters at a frenzied clip. If she kept moving, they wouldn’t detect her. If she kept moving, Tessa couldn’t catch her. If she kept moving, she’d eventually get away from this hellhole.

So focused was she on putting one foot in front of the other that Tessa, with that computer-like mind and tactical knowledge, came out of nowhere and planted her on her butt. Mystique didn’t catch the intricate maneuvers or how Tessa leveled her, but she was a practical girl and practical girls dealt with the here and the now.

The now: about to be shot.

The here: grassy knoll, surrounded by ignorant, lemming-like demons, and behind her the rapturous visage of Dane Whitman.

Dane Whitman? What was the Black Knight, noted do-gooder and long time Avenger, doing looking like a villainous individual? The man pulsated with a palatable power. From that power came a rip in space, and from that rip more demons crawled through. It lashed out at the world with angry lightning, ceasing only when it widened to drop off another load of its infernal cargo. Wild guess here, but maybe the virtuous Black Knight wasn’t virtuous anymore?

Towering over her with her gun readied, Tessa smiled. “Checkmate, Mystique.”

Checkmate--Irene’s final warning replayed itself.

“When you are in a checkmate, have the black queen remove her own knight.”

One Black Knight hovered in the back. Gun aimed at her and lying on the ground, Mystique considered this checkmate. And the black queen? Well, Tessa wasn’t Selene, but dressed in the tight black top, the hugging leather pants, and that black trench, she could pass. Now, Mystique had to convince Tessa to shoot Whitman instead of her.

*Time to try and pull the wool over my second telepath today.*

Crap, did she just think that?

Everything went into slow motion. The top of the gun jerked back as a fine mist of smoke ejected out. Tessa’s hand recoiled and at the same time, Mystique lurched her head. The hot bullet clipped her ear and shocked her body enough for it to reclaim its original form. Half transformed, Mystique grabbed hold of Tessa’s wrist to prevent the next and deadly shot. As they jockeyed for the firearm’s control, they contested their strength and fighting skills.

The gun discharged.

Bang into the air. Bang into the ground. Bang into Mystique’s side. The metamorph gritted her teeth and pushed, finally getting enough space to stand. Tessa allowed the move if only to get in better position to go bang.

Bang to the left. Bang to the right. Bang into Mystique’s chest.

Still slow, everything so slow and blurry and tired. Her feet slipped out and she rolled down into a large rock sticking out of the grass at the knoll’s base. Tessa was about to cackle but the sound of thunder shut her up.

Dane Whitman still floated in the portal except now, blood gushed out of his throat like a fountain. The portal heaved, expanding a hair before quickly deflating. Flashes of light acting like broken fragments of power went everywhere. Demons journeying to this realm howled, startled by the sudden collapsing and corresponding instability.

The Black Knight spasmed once then died. The portal audibly yawned, and like that, it inhaled.

Things like demons, birds, trashcans, and Tessa not firmly lodged into the ground got pulled closer. Mystique, bullet holes and all, shape shifted and melded her hands together so the violent suction wouldn’t break her weakening grasp. The force heightened, reaching a point where bipedal beings lost their footing and soared into the portal.

Tessa ditched her gun and laid herself flat. Fingers jabbed into the soil, she anchored herself, albeit unstably. Her trench coat, till now a great asset, flagged at the portal’s mercy and tried to take her with it. The portal didn’t do her any favors by gaining momentum.

Throughout the park, protests rang out. Many of Belasco’s minions, many who only now got into the action, didn’t appreciate their fun being cut short.

They didn’t like it, but they didn’t have a choice either.

Soil slowly buckled under Tessa’s digits. Ten little grooves formed, each space a testament to the woman’s strength. She might’ve been allies with Belasco, might’ve even gotten on his “good” side, but she had no intention of touring his hell dimension for herself.

The Professor’s files on Illyana Rasputin painted a macabre picture of her imprisonment. Belasco had an acute eye for physical and psychological torture, two things Tessa avoided if possible.

Loose pebbles broke skin. Blood running out lubricated the space between finger and dirt, reducing traction. Flying objects pelted her as they unwillingly went into the vortex. It yawned again and kicked into another gear, uprooting small to medium sized trees. In front of her, a fat little demon bounced, its trajectory heading straight into her. Tessa evaluated the state of her arms and found them lacking in the ability to brace her against impact.

The ball of blubber smacked her on the forehead, shattering her sunglasses and peeling her fingers off the ground. Her back splatted against the solid ebb of lightning and with a wink, darkness.

Meanwhile, Mystique held on for dear life, the wound in her chest opening bigger and bigger. The bullet hit a lung and left her feeling like she had acute pneumonia, you know, that horrible drowning above land feeling. Being at the bottom of a hill had its advantages, the most important being shielded from much of the incoming harm. So, all Mystique had to do was keep her arms melded together around the rock and she’d survive... hopefully.

Contending with blood loss, the woman tried to stay awake and in one piece while the portal raged behind her like a hungry giant yearning only for more, more, more. Giving one last hurrah, the black hole inhaled, doubled in size, and then buckled into nothingness. Around her, only strong trees and blades of grass remained. Lucky demons not in Battery Park’s vicinity still ran free, but the bulk, a good three quarters, of Belasco’s forces disappeared back to their origins.

Mystique shuddered and fell unconscious.

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 54

Title: Hopping and Skipping

Chapter 53: Hopping and Skipping

Every crane of her neck shocked her system courtesy of “Magneto’s” blackening boot print. Her voice hadn’t quite returned yet--in fact, her breath hadn’t made it around the corner yet--but life didn’t stop for her. When her teacher, Ms. Emma Grace Frost, forsook her and went after that... that... Psylocke-looking thing, the last wisp of Esme’s hopes went out.

Then Ms. Munroe, Storm, blasted her captor off of her with what had to be tornado like winds. Esme rolled out of the way and hid herself as well as she could. Her neck throbbed while her stomach wrung itself into an itty bitty knot. Everyone on this roof wielded power many times greater than her own. When one side prevailed, they’d turn their sights to her and their sights held nothing good and no promises of getting better.

This Belasco person already once ordered her death. Why she didn’t know, but he did. Maybe he was one of those “existence haters” the X-Men came across so very frequently. As she watched him rebuff the legendary Doctor Strange, the wayward Stepford sister didn’t want to be at the pointy eared, pale skinned man’s mercy. Something about his maniacal grin rubbed her the wrong way. If he won the battle, Esme had no doubts he’d do something utterly sadistic and violent to her--the man just screamed of evil, and in her point of view, few people ever pulled that off in a not funny, dead serious sort of way.

Now, should the X-Men win, Esme would have to deal with Ms. Frost and the attempted murder. While Ms. Frost didn’t scream evil, she did exude an icy, calmly violent, manipulative, vengeful quality feared and respected by everyone from the Professor to Jubilee. Esme saw brief glimpses of the White Queen the rare times she talked about the Hellions and that woman was not one to cross. If one did cross her, they better make sure she died because as long as she was able, she would get her revenge. Esme was so sure she’d kill Ms. Frost, but then again, she was also so sure the one she followed was Magneto. Life equaled a living hell.

A well calculated fear chilled her. She might’ve pined for Emma’s assistance a second ago, but that was desperation talking. Desperation tended to cloud better judgment.

Bad times. Esme didn’t like her possible fates.

Not fifty feet away, the emergency stairs beckoned her. Fifty feet of lightning, hand-to-hand combat, fireballs, spells, and other unfathomable activities barred her escape. Being a smart girl, Esme knew that if she didn’t risk this chance, she wouldn’t want to live another day.

Escape one way or another called to her.

Keeping low to the ground, the blonde scurried to the door. She dodged Ororo’s flailing body launched by Magneto’s punch. A hop carried her over the hole Ms. Dane made. Twenty feet away and Esme tasted the anticipation on her tongue. Brian Braddock almost tumbled into her but she put on a burst of speed, eluding the Emma-Brian-Betsy fight.

Success! She grabbed a hold of the doorknob just as someone from the other side opened it. The surprise, the door’s mass, and her own weakened body combined to knock her a few steps back. Unfortunately, those few steps led Esme straight into a mass of bricks, tripping her up and sending her to the floor.

As her head bounced, her eyes focused on a flock of birds flying down at her. Well, they weren’t exactly birds and they weren’t exactly flying at her in particular, but close enough. The closer they got, the more menacing them became, glowing red eyes and razor sharp canine, talons, and bony wings making their statements for them.

Mr. LeBeau shambled through the fire escape entering the fray instead of escaping it. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he bowled Esme over but self-preservation prevented her swift-

A second was all it took.

*****************

As Kitty tried to advance to the Empire State Building while ducking out of the line of sight of the demonic hordes, she saw a great black swarm of things dart to her destination from high above. When the first creature landed, a round object hurled off the side of the building and disappeared into nothingness, lost in the darkness.

*****************

Sophie gasped and clutched her chest. “Esme...”

Phoebe, Mindee, and Celeste hung their heads low. “She’s gone,” the trio said in unison.

*****************

Mystical energies emerged and coiled around Doctor Strange’s upper arms. The Sorcerer Supreme drew a deep breath and exhaled on the snaky, amorphous tendrils. His breath, coupled with an intricate hand gesture, dispelled the restraints; however, Belasco only used them as decoys.

He summoned a gigantic, disembodied, ethereal sword and spun it at his foe. Immediately, Strange ceased his flight spell and hoped to drop out of the attack’s path but it followed him. Restarting his flight ability, he whizzed across the landscape through broken buildings and tight alleyways. The sword didn’t mind following, steadfastly carving up obstacles impeding its progress. Behind him, things like streetlights, cement, and neon signs fell to the magical sword’s edge, distinct destructive songs reverberating as they struck the ground.

A narrow alley forced Strange to turn on his side. He bumped against poorly constructed balconies as he pushed away the distraction to put some distance between him and Belasco’s spell. He emerged on the other side of the alley and became a blur, exploding around a series of corners. The spinning sword didn’t slow a beat, instead cutting straight through a department store to take the shortest path to its target.

“Damn it,” the Sorcerer Supreme cussed. The cursed sword continued its breakneck pace, undaunted by anything. This spell needed to go and go now--he couldn’t even fathom the damage it would do if Belasco turned it on the X-Men.

He shot into the sky and readied an incantation to break Belasco’s concentration. Fortunately when he spared a glance at Battery Park, he noticed the Otherworld portal closing. Unfortunately, he noticed too late that the sky was filled with flying demons. A horned creature led a squad of his brothers to attack Strange, and before he could boom a warning to his allies atop the Empire State Building, a score of Belasco’s worst already landed and tore into the X-Men’s ranks.

Strange made a beeline to Belasco and shrugged off the nicks and bruises the demons peppered him with. The sword still followed and the evil magician still functioned, two things the good Doctor tried to rectify. If it meant meeting Belasco in close quarters combat, so be it.

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 55

Title: Love is a Wonderful Thing

Chapter 54: Love is a Wonderful Thing

They understood each other. They were bonded to each other. They went to unimaginable lengths for each other. Yet, despite her power and their history, Emma couldn’t so much as peek into Betsy’s mind. Something about Belasco and his mystical garbage locked away Betsy’s consciousness like a prisoner. With enough time, Emma could break through. Problem was she didn’t have time. For that matter, Betsy wasn’t cooperating.

The blonde needed protection and time, two things in short supply.

Emma swung her fist and tried to knockout Betsy in one blow, but the woman met her punch with one of her own. Their fists crashed into each other with a jaw-shaking vibration. Bone broke through Betsy’s hand; the hairline fissures in Emma’s arm lengthened.

Betsy didn’t hit on the level of Lorna Dane but she came disturbingly close.

“Brian,” said Emma as she pushed Betsy away, “I need you to occupy her. My body can’t take more of this punishment and killing your sister is not an option.”

And Brian Braddock, who’d just dusted himself off after being creamed by one of Betsy’s deadly kicks, acquiesced. “I’ll give you all the time you-”

An unnatural tearing and the snapping of vertebrae stopped their exchange. “Esme,” gasped Emma.

Betsy seized her opponents’ momentary lapse, raked Brian across the back, and shoved his head into Emma. The two lost their balance and muddled straight into the waiting arms of some recently arrived demons. Luckily, being the one in front, Emma received the brunt of the demons’ wrath and shook off the hits; admittedly, her body garnered more cracks but Brian, despite his superhuman fortitude, couldn’t have possibly survived the initial flurry.

The time spent regathering his wits wasn’t in vain. A ball of light gathered in his opened palm; he thrust his hand out and a flash of brilliance penetrated the demonic ranks, dissolving them into ash.

Being the ruler of the Otherworld had its perks.

Emma left Brian to deal with the endless onslaught. Nothing could help Esme now, and besides, didn’t Emma make her choice already? The blonde turned back around and found Betsy on her haunches, ready to spring but cautious all the same.

Still nothing across their rapport--she needed an in to Betsy’s head and Belasco wasn’t big on providing it. Supposing she did penetrate the barriers, Emma also needed protection, protection from mutants, Belasco, and whatever other things that decided to kill her.

Couldn’t count on Brian anymore because he was amply occupied not ten feet behind her. Storm? Storm, now lost in the chaos, was somewhere battling Magneto. Doctor Strange, if he wasn’t dead, probably kept Belasco himself busy. The Professor was all talk and no action, which on top of being crippled and collared, made him his typically useless self.

“Elisabeth, can you hear me?”

Betsy hissed and manifested a crude, unfocused version of her psychic knife.

Psychic knife. Emma’s eyes widened: like last time with the Shadow King, the pure expression of mental energy could be used to cross into Betsy’s mind. The in she wanted popped up, and now, the protection remained as the only obstacle.

Betsy pounced, knife leading and body fully extended. Emma shrunk aside, the manifestation’s edge missing her by the width of a hair. A diamond crusted hand chopped into Betsy’s lower ribs. Not even acknowledging the strike, Betsy slashed at Emma again, this time black tendrils snaking out and holding the blonde in one place. The blonde managed to stop a successful hit by blocking the other woman’s forearm.

Before Emma could even try to wiggle herself loose from Betsy’s demonic grasp, something slammed into her back with such force that she made a deep, and most likely permanent, impression on the metal, elevator doors. Whatever ambushed her didn’t let go, preferring to pound her over and over into the ground. Under the taxing beating, her body gave up a bunch of audible cracks.

Suddenly, a boom obliterated whatever straddled her back, leaving behind bloody entrails and loose bits of skin. Emma got to her knees and watched slivers of herself fall, diamond powdered and broken like crystal or glass. Betsy seemed enraged at her continued well-being and charged... only to be met by a makeshift staff wielded by a Cajun.

“Look like you could use a break, chere.”

Emma wasn’t sure who he talked to, but for once, she was glad to see his scruffy face and hear his mind-boggling accent. “We need a few moments alone, Gambit. Can you cover Betsy and myself?”

“I owe dat woman, Frost. If you can bring her back, I’d fight Apocalypse for you.”

She nodded and rose to her full height, chips of diamond flaking off of her. Despite a gunshot wound to the stomach, a legion of enemies around him, and hope of survival dimming by the second, Remy glanced at the precious stones and held back his inner t’ief. “Mon dieu, you droppin’ a fortune, you know dat?”

“Your obvious concern for my health warms my heart.”

“Remy could buy a nice yacht wit de stuff on de ground.”

“I didn’t need to know that, Gambit.”

“A big yacht, like de ones on dat show ‘bout de rich n’ famous.’”

“Not now, LeBeau.”

“Maybe call it ‘La Belle’ or ‘La Petite-’”

Emma peeled a fragment off her side and shoved it in Remy’s pocket. “Less talking, more covering.”

“Sorry,” he grinned roguishly, “tryin’ to lighten t’ings up.”

“Stop trying and start doing.”

“Oui, madame.”

Charging up a full house, he threw his staff into the air. The stick twirled and nailed a demoness’ chin, dislocating it and jamming a fang through its nose. Five cards soared into the clumps of monsters and ruptured, the concussive blast belying the small, thin projectiles. Singed and screaming things spiraled into the depths below, their last sound a dull splat on an already death filled street.

Remy clutched his stomach as fresh blood leaked from the corners of the cauterized spots. The staff dropped back into his awaiting hand and he used it to hold himself up. Demons all over Brian shifted themselves to Remy: a new toy joined the tussle. Another fistful of cards lit up in a glow of pink.

“Come one, come all,” he called out, his red pupils gleaming like rubies, “Dere’s enough o’ Remy to go ‘round.”

And like that, only Emma and Betsy remained. Well, what was left of Betsy anyway.

Emma searched high and low for some signs of intelligence or emotion. She hoped there was something to fight for. She prayed, truly prayed and let out a quiet call to whatever deity controlling this world that Betsy could be saved. She searched, she hoped, and she prayed, but nothing came of her troubles.

Thunder rumbled in the sky and a bolt of lightning lit the battlefield for one spectacularly brief second. Emma saw the madness in Betsy’s eyes and the horrible changes Belasco put her body through. A tiny voice in the back of her head asked a question about what to do if she did get Betsy back; after all, the background still contained a bleak life or death struggle.

Emma told the tiny voice to shut the fuck up.

Then she rushed Betsy.

The inky extensions made another swipe at the blonde’s limbs and she obliged them: they wrapped around her and squeezed with an unholy strength. Emma snatched Betsy’s arm, the one with the psychic knife still humming away on, and plunged it into her own forehead.

Unlike the last time, Betsy struck with no precision. Whereas before Psylocke surgically razed Emma’s defenses, this attack had the subtly of a sledgehammer. This approach proved equally effective when Emma’s body locked up and her eyes almost wanted to turn to mush and ooze out their sockets. Ideas disentangled themselves and became senseless abstractions. Nerves overloaded, firing at a constant rate and turning every feeling into a numbed blankness.

Floating. She floated in her own mindscape detached from the physical world. Baseless and defenseless, her mind reverted her self-image back to a naked, shivering form highlighted by a single spotlight and surrounded by nothing. Having been here before, Emma willed herself to overcome the paralyzing assault. She ordered her mind to comply but it didn’t respond.

From the darkness emerged Betsy dressed in her traditional X-Men garb. She looked real here, untainted by the mystical spells and Otherworld qualities infused in her. A brew of sadness and loathing bubbled in her eyes and brought hope to Emma. The hope doubled when she spoke, her voice dripping with a human sorrow.

*Emma, why?*

Why? *Why what?*

*Why did you leave me to die? I cried out for you and you abandoned me.* Closer Betsy walked, a gaping chunk of her chest suddenly disappearing. *Cut out by Vargas,* she elaborated when Emma’s eyes widened. Bruises in the shapes of fingers grew around her neck. *Belasco almost snapped my neck like a pencil. I’m dead, Emma, and it’s all your fault. Where were you when I needed you? I thought you loved me...*

Mind caught up between disgust and fear, Emma hedged away and tried to buy time for herself to recover. So vulnerable, she said the first thing that came to her. *I’m sorry, Betsy, I really-*

Betsy seemed to teleport, first there, now here, nose to nose and toe to toe. *Kind of late for ‘I’m sorry,’ isn’t it? Oh, look at me, I’m sorry I left you to the vultures. Here, having a fucking cookie.*

An enormous pressure pressed against Emma’s temples. The woman’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and her hands clutched the painful areas. Felt like a vice cranked away at her brain, bursting blood vessels and mashing gray matter. As she dropped to her knees, Betsy snared a handful of her blonde hair and pulled it back so they saw each other.

*We’ve been here before. What did Amahl Farouk say?* She paused for dramatic effect and smirked. *I remember now! ‘Isn’t that wonderful, Emma? You’re going to be eaten to death. It’s an appropriate way for someone like you to go.’*

Another more violent tug forced Emma’s eyes further open. Specks of blood running down her nose splashed across everything like a wide brushstroke.

*Farouk’s not here anymore,* pouted Betsy, *but Master enjoys a few psychic snacks as much as the next all powerful sorcerer.* Wickedness took over her serene features. *For our blossoming love’s sake, I’ll let you eat me before He finishes you off.*

A coarse, rough kiss consumed Emma. A tongue tried to find its way into her mouth but even now, weakened and hurt, she barred its entrance. *Elisabeth, fight him,* her disembodied voice implored, *You’ve seen his worst and it took more than that to break you.*

Breaking the kiss, Betsy’s clothes blinked out of existence. *There’s something you don’t get. Your Elisabeth can hear you but she can’t do anything about it. Both of you are at Master’s mercy and He can do anything He wants.*

To prove her point, she straightened up and forced Emma’s face into her crotch. And as anyone who ever forced the White Queen to do anything attested to, she always rebelled in her own way. This rebellion was easy, consisting of closing her mouth and pulling back with all her might.

Sometimes, she could be so predictable.

*That’s it Emma, fight your temptation like it matters. Try to be noble in your last moments because it’s all you have to repent for your pathetic excuse of a life.*

Getting no response, Betsy cast the blonde aside. Inside the dark background, a little something moved. The same spotlight which highlighted Emma now shined on Betsy. Silvery strands of string barely visible--invisible were it not for the light--glistened while they extended from every facet of Betsy’s soul. The little something in the darkness moved again as it fought to fully enter Emma’s mind.

The little something... what a misnomer. As Emma wiped her mouth clean, she noticed the little something was big: it only looked small because it was far off. The strings concerned her, and as the big something ventured closer, she got a better idea of what they did.

The big something had to be Belasco. What other pointy ear demon with orange hued skin existed anyway? His astral projection was huge, annoying, and unnecessary like his ego. Of course, the sorcerer pictured himself a puppeteer, playing his minions like well-tuned instruments. The strings extended from Betsy and into a large wooden cross, the cross held by none other than Belasco. He controlled Betsy like a marionette and used her mental avatar as nothing more than a mouthpiece.

Betsy? Captive. Belasco? Captor. Course of action? Destroy captor.

One question though. *How is Belasco here when he’s also outside?*

The strings jerked and Betsy laughed maniacally. *Magic,* she replied, the answer amusing the still emerging Belasco.

Fucking Belasco. Fucking magic. Fucking Betsy. If Emma wasn’t emotionally invested in the woman neither of them would ever be in this position. The fuming White Queen in her wanted to view this predicament as tit-for-tat repayment, or better yet, a way to keep Psylocke under her thumb should they get out of this alive. The White Queen never went the extra mile for anyone, especially when at cost to herself. The White Queen never put herself in a situation to lose.

The White Queen could shut up now.

Whatever she thought, whatever her protests, she couldn’t hide the empty spot in Emma’s head previously occupied by the bond to Betsy’s consciousness. It’d been nice having another soul to relate to, something neither White Queen nor Emma Grace Frost experienced. While they hadn’t broken the X-Men record for longest relationship, their closeness far outstripped the superficial attraction seen in most X-unions. Honestly, Hank wasn’t forthright with Trish Tilby, Alex knew (and now cared) little about Lorna’s life, and Warren, for all his suave moves and declarations of love, didn’t realize that Paige still looked at him like a hero.

As the girl’s former instructor, Emma caught such mannerisms.

Yes, yes, psychic integration helped Emma and Betsy’s cause. They hadn’t truly talked to each other until a handful of days ago, but in that time, they got to know each other better than parents knew their children, parents like Emma’s own parents, parents who were either drugged up or power-hungry, parents who didn’t spare their daughter a glance until she hit it big, parents who made her into the woman she hated, parents who didn’t deserve the title of parents.

Her barren mindscape erupted with activity, the lone spotlight widening to illuminated every inch of space. A sterile white canvassed her mind and enunciated Belasco’s monstrous features and Betsy’s nakedness. Broken pieces of her mind snapped back into form and her defenses returned, all unseen but all deadly. She refused to cloth herself in the White Queen’s curve hugging leathers, instead standing to face this intruder as her true self.

*This is it?* Belasco asked, unimpressed. *This is the mind of one of this realm’s most powerful telepaths? I’ve had apprentices with more inspiring abilities!*

*More inspiring? Yes,* she allowed. *More effective? I doubt it.*

The empty whiteness warped and hugged Belasco’s projection. Spikes, formed from the nothingness, lanced through him. The ground beneath him collapsed, dropping him into more of the same white surroundings. Psychic attacks came at him, origins unknown and results unpredictable.

*My mind. My rules.*

A tidal wave roared into Belasco and hammered him. Betsy’s body hung still while her puppeteer defended himself. Still, still like a corpse. Emma walked forward and stared into those lifeless eyes.

*You said you were in there,* the blonde whispered. *He couldn’t have killed you because nothing excites him more than agony. You have to come out, Elisabeth, or else everything I’ve put myself through will amount to nothing.*

No muscle moved. Ever the impatient woman, Emma slapped Betsy, desperation pushing her to become much more proactive. *Wake up, you imbecile! How dare you ignore me?! After all those accusations about leaving you to die, you do nothing when I slap the taste from your mouth? Answer me!*

A hollow smile and those same damnable, lifeless eyes answered Emma. The tiny voice she thought she squashed asked the million dollar question: What if Betsy was really dead? Emma felt nothing through their bond, Betsy wasn’t responding, and while Belasco was sadistic, he wasn’t stupid. What if he already made Betsy suffer enough and went through this just to get his shits and giggles off of another poor mutant?

What if she doomed herself by allowing Belasco into her mind?

Then Betsy’s eyes fluttered. *Too bad, so sad, game over. Master’s done playing and you’re going to die.*

The giant visage of Belasco shrugged off the globs of white pawing at him. He beat back the formless tidal wave, tearing it open to reveal the darkness which decorated Emma’s mindscape moments ago.

*You have my attention, mortal. I judged you too soon but that will not happen again.* A thin blaze of hellfire outlined his body and began burning away the parts of Emma fighting back. *I’ve lived for generations. I learned the mind’s craft before your forefathers were even thoughts in their forefather’s breeches. I’ve battled legendary mystics and won. A lowly mutant like yourself cannot hope to defeat me!*

Hellfire shot out of the ground. Pillars of the most blinding flames sprang up and seared away more of Emma. She backpedaled only to hear another column burst forth behind her. She rolled to the side but the hellfire kept coming, trailing her by a heartbeat. Eruptions shook her equilibrium and produced a splitting headache. The pain slowed her a hair, and that hair meant the difference between evading the next eruption or stepping right into it.

A glowing jet came to life under her feet. Where the White Queen once stood, now only hellfire remained.

The white nothing shattered into the insides of a volcano. Pulling Betsy up by her strings, Belasco gloated, the triumphant conqueror.

*The one you tried to protect beyond your brother is gone, Braddock child, but don’t worry: you will be there for his death too. Writhe, scream, curse, suffer--I see the pain in your soul and I am richer for it. So long as I control you, these things will come to you every eternal moment. I will break you to a point where no one can put you back together. Then, I will hang your spirit on my mantle like a trophy and watch the offspring of my dead nemesis, your father, gnash and slather like a wild beast.*

He turned her around and forced her to wave to the remains of Emma’s mind. *Say goodbye, Braddock child. Your lover is no more.*

While her outside beamed, Betsy’s inside writhed, screamed, cursed, and suffered. She didn’t want to say any of those hurtful, hateful things to Emma. She didn’t want to be Belasco’s tool to destroy this wonderful mind. She didn’t want to be a shell of herself, there to experience but never act. She didn’t want any of those things, but Belasco thought otherwise.

The worst part was not even getting to touch Emma one last time. Maybe, just maybe, if she touched that alabaster skin, she’d be able to channel her inner emotions and tell the woman how this thing looking like her wasn’t her. Maybe, but even the maybes died, ashes smoldering in this reproduction of Otherworld hell.

*I’ve wasted enough time in this place. There are heroes to bury and worlds to take over. It is time I left.*

Turning around, he disassociated his astral projection and reappeared.... reappeared here, exactly where he was, surrounded by the flaming remnants of Emma’s mind. Curious, he disassociated again and the result stayed the same: no movement, no Empire State Building, no image of his minions winning the fight over earth’s X-Men and their allies.

*What manner of sorcery is this?* Belasco grimaced. *Why can’t I leave this ruined mind?*

*Because I didn’t give you permission.*

Out of the flames stepped a figure resembling a female Human Torch. Every inch of her screamed heat but she retained her shape. More fires showered the area and consumed the untouched bits of white. As if hit by an earthquake, the entire place shook, reflecting the state of its mistress.

Emma repeated, *My mind. My rules.*

A long whip made of fire lashed at the giant’s knuckles. Belasco jerked away, and when he did, he left the strings attached to Betsy taut and exposed. The whip snapped again, and this time, the out of tune breaking of strings vibrated away like an old guitar giving up its ghost. Once held rigid but now freed, Betsy stumbled onto the blazing yet oddly soothing ground.

Crack went the whip as it slipped past Belasco’s arms and scored his cheek. Crack went the whip as it slapped his knee. Crack went whip as it felled him like a tree.

A palm reached out to Betsy. She couldn’t close the distance or communicate her thoughts, but at least she didn’t spurn the gesture under her tormentor’s watchful eye. She wanted to tell Emma to run while she still could because Belasco was too powerful, too crafty. She wanted to tell Emma to leave her behind, that she didn’t mind as long as said blonde telepath was safe.

Damn, she had it bad. Anchored in another’s mind, unable to defend herself, and at the mercy of one demonic magic user, she realized just how much she hurt not being able to be there for Emma. It all came back to Emma, didn’t it?

The palm cupped Betsy’s chin and tilted her head up.

Emma.

*I need you to defeat Belasco. We need to do what we did to the Shadow King again.*

Again? But what about all the trouble the act caused last time? What about the identity crisis and disjointed memories? What about their bond? She still didn’t feel anything much less their bond. Close proximity allowed the strongest sensations to flow through them. Too much, too fast--Emma sensed the distress in the unmoving woman.

To that, she only had one question. *Elisabeth, do you trust me?*

Of course Betsy trusted Emma... except on the topic of trusting Emma not to kill herself with her stubbornness. Nothing dissuaded that woman when she put her mind to something, and yes, Betsy gushed of gratefulness for the willingness to save her, but Emma needed to run and run fast. Didn’t she get it? Belasco was HERE in her mind and larger than life, the same Belasco who passed the time by making unsubjugated demons into his subjects!

Emma kissed her. *You fear him, I know. What he did to you I can’t change, but I can help you claim your revenge. How quickly you forget that you are my Elisabeth. No one, and I do mean no one, steals from me: some mendacious Otherworld boogie man isn’t going to get away because of who he is. I failed you once before but I will never again. So, do you trust me?*

The words about possession, responsibility, and trust dizzied Betsy. She didn’t quite know what to make of them because Emma was all over the place, her image exuding calm and cool but her actions and innermost thoughts a tumultuous storm.

Then Belasco jumped back into the scene and Betsy jumped with him. No, not jumped with him as in being under his control but jumped with him as in he jumped and she reacted. Limited usage of her mind meant good news, but the bad news was that she couldn’t do much except voice her much thought about urgings.

*Emma, you have to leave.*

A finger silenced her lips. *Don’t fear him. This is perhaps the only place where we can beat him. I will not squander this opportunity to silence the one that hurt you like he did. Answer me: do you trust me?*

What kind of question was that? *Of course I trust you but-*

*But nothing then. Join with me and we’ll sort out the questions later.*

A considerable and sinister looking sword materialized in Belasco’s hand. The test swings whistled through the columns of hellfire closing in on him and extinguished them like candles. Furious, his eyes glowed while he stomped toward the two women.

*Trust me,* said Emma, *Trust me and we can beat him.*

Betsy nodded and began converting herself into psychic energies to mingle with Emma. Belasco, quite adept at mental processes, didn’t like what he saw. He heaved the humongous sword over his head and hewed into Psylocke with the strength of Thor and all his Asgardian brethren combined. Gourds of molten flames rose up from either side of the sword’s impact and cased Emma’s mind into a momentary haze of chaos.

Here one second, gone the next--when everything returned to normal, Betsy wasn’t there anymore.

She was everywhere.

Dissolved into a cloudy, ephemeral mass, she stretched herself out and flowed into the niches of Emma. Elisabeth Braddock. Emma Frost. Elisabeth Frost. Emma Braddock. They swirled together into a potent package more powerful than two of world’s most skillful telepaths combined. A ribbon of light wrapped around Emma’s psychic form and clothed her into a white leather version of Betsy’s uniform.

Purple replaced platinum blonde. Steely blue eyes glinted with a predatory deadliness. Muscles toned themselves. The fires folded into a grassy valley flanked by snow capped mountains. Belasco’s sword lodged itself in the ground, and try as he might, he failed to wretch it loose.

Peace foreshadowed the impending violence.

The amalgam of Betsy and Emma raced up the edge of the stuck blade, up their enemy’s arm and right into his face. As she cocked her fist, a katana forged of pure psychic energies appeared in her readied hand. Thrust into the giant’s left eye and out fountained a wealth of power Belasco’s astral projection consolidated earlier.

Letting go, the wounded sorcerer swatted at his attacker, but she slipped over his shoulder and ran her weapon down the length of his back as she descended. Predictably, he fell, but he wasn’t useless. One of his hands flashed out and slapped the gloating woman straight into one of the mountains. So hard the hit that the katana phased out of existence and the woman herself left a full bodied imprint in the stone.

With a hand over his absent eye and his permanent scowl broaching hellish proportions, Belasco climbed upright and bared his teeth at the one who hurt him. *Another wonderful little trick, mortal, but it is time to do away with you forever!*

*You’ve said that before,* the voices of Betsy and Emma said as one, *We are still here and waiting for your worst.*

Clouds above burst into flames. The wail of countless souls broke into Emma’s consciousness and shook the serene valley to its core. Mountains split and crumbled; snow melted into flooding waves.

*If I cannot destroy your astral body, then I will destroy your mind.*

His foot stomped and from that point emanated a series of gaping fissures. Rocks tumbled into the cracks and never returned. Belasco extended a set of claws on of his hands and lumbered toward his dispassionate target.

Not that the overall destruction of her mindscape didn’t hurt, but Emma preferred keeping a poker face whenever possible. Buoyed by Betsy’s powers, she kept herself and them together, never revealing the pain or the concentration.

Concentration? Yes, well, not like they weren’t up to something.

The behemoth reached her, roared, and brought him claws down. Like a ninja, she jumped straight into the air and out of the way. From behind, Belasco’s sword came loose. Under Betsy and Emma’s command, it hovered a split second and then spun end over end as if the thrown by the pommel. Belasco had enough time to look up at the woman before the blade passed through him and buried itself in an untouched mountainside.

He gargled and twitched but his expression stayed the same. The shaking, destruction, fires, and pandemonium paused to take in what just happened. One half of Belasco fell forward while the other half tipped on its side. The body vaporized into energy, energy which Emma and Betsy drank like water.

And like that, the singular expression of them collapsed, each woman too exhausted to continue holding their selves together. Like last time, the image fuzzed out of focus and replaced it with their separate astral projections lying on the mutilated ground.

Emma glanced at Betsy. *I can feel you again.*

*The bond is back.*

Tiredly, the blonde brushed aside a few stray hairs. *I’d like to relax, but outside, there’s a new battle to fight.*

She prepared to rejoin the physical world only to be stopped by Betsy’s touch. *Thank you, Emma.*

*It’s not something you wouldn’t do for me.*

*You’re right, but that doesn’t make me any less thankful.*

*As you so righteously showed tonight. You’re welcome, Elisabeth, and you have my thanks as well.*

She resumed her departure but Betsy turned her around and melded their lips together. The thundering protests of her frazzled mind yielded to the warmth converging on the lower regions of her body. Betsy kissed her and kissed her with an unbridled passion that was not only overwhelming but also disconcerting in its strength.

The passion of battle, victory, and near-death smoldered between them, heightening their infantile attraction to each other. Though their love was young and immature, it had the strength of one well nurtured and long lived. For both women, release--never mind a true relationship--had been too long ago, perhaps even never ago. The magnetic pull and the unstoppable reactions tumbling through Emma scared her, yet she didn’t want this kiss to stop.

Half of Betsy’s fears came to fruition: the high of their struggles translated into a rabid love teetering on the edge of its demise. Burnout, most people called it; others labeled it as the heat of the moment. The rational side of Betsy yelled and stomped and flailed and shouted for her to slow down, but the other parts of Betsy glared at the dissenting little thing and knocked it unconscious. Analyzing a possibility was one thing, but living through the scenario was another.

The lure of everything Emma inebriated her. The plush lips and sinfully soft skin begged for attention. Passion? Betsy wore her passion here on her sleeve, on her mouth, on every inch of astral flesh complementing Emma’s curves. After another trip through Belasco’s hands, she needed to feel alive and loved: loving Emma, especially now, was too easy. Stop? No, she couldn’t stop. She knew this was the wrong time, the wrong place, and probably the wrong pace, but she couldn’t stop.

Need pulsed through their bond and Emma savored it. The raw emotions and unwavering desire made the blonde feel special and, for lack of a better term, fed her ego. Betsy held her like a life preserver, like an irreplaceable relic, like her own existence. Importance, devotion, and undiluted passion swayed Emma into a state of bliss, every avenue of herself satisfied at this particular moment.

She felt loved.

She felt needed.

She felt cherished.

She felt worshiped.

She felt understood.

What more could a girl ask for?

Then from nowhere and everywhere came *I love you.*

Whack. Emma lost her grip on her astral form and tunneled back into the physical world as if strapped to a homicidal roller coaster. Betsy lay atop of her, eyes closed and features still semi-demonic. Drenched in red, Gambit looked like the Kool-Aid man being assaulted by his many fans. Somewhere through the chaos was supposed to be everyone else but everyone else didn’t matter.

Emma’s breath caught. Three little words sent her scrambling. Of course the words existed and existed between them, but to hear them voiced gave them a new reality which the White Queen wasn’t used to. For better or for worse, Emma could accept being loved, but loving others she had a problem with. Loving someone meant giving part of herself away. Loving someone meant being there for them. Loving someone meant being committed.

I love you. Three little words made her relationship with Betsy real. No, being loved didn’t scare her. She’d used one-sided love many times, always reaping the rewards but never reciprocating. What did was her propensity to return that love. Unwittingly, Emma had done all the things a person would do for the one she loved.

She gave her secrets away, the ones about her family and her life outside of mutanthood. She hounded Betsy, hounded her until their issues were resolved and their selves were put back together. She committed herself, braving the Otherworld’s worst to make up for not being there for Betsy.

No, Emma didn’t fear Betsy’s affections: Emma feared her own strong response. To suddenly be in love and not realize it amounted to leaping before she looked or investing in a corporation without prior research. The “I love you” brought Emma back to earth and made her reevaluate what happened.

Conclusion? Emma was off-her-rocker in love, out-of-her-mind in love and she didn’t care. Now, if only the legions of demons would cooperate and leave both of them to sort out everything.

What the hell, not like she was going to be among the living for long, diamond body or no. As Betsy opened her muddled eyes, Emma whispered, “I love you too.”

******************

- To be continued...

Chapter 56

Title: The Endsong

Chapter 55: The Endsong

Doctor Strange. The name implied a familiarity to the outlandish and, well, strange. Over his long tenure as Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen had been privy to a bevy of mind-bending, unexplainable phenomena. Despite his vast experiences and categorical knowledge of the weird, a handful of happenings still eluded or confounded him.

Take Belasco as a perfect example. Objectively, the demon was gifted in every form of combat: he’d just as easily gut someone with a scythe as rot their insides with a spell. Vast training and experience allowed him to excel on multiple fronts at the same time. Why, Strange himself had once witnessed the magnus cut down a handful of warriors, telepathically fry another sorcerer’s mind, and summon a large demon to do his bidding all at the same time.

Talk about multitasking.

So when in the midst of throwing close range spells at each other, Doctor Strange got the surprise of his life when Belasco went rigid, clutched his bleeding ears, and screamed in unadulterated agony. The other demons looked at their master, concern and fear on their faces. The homing sword, the same one which made quick passes every few seconds to try and cut off Strange’s head, spun out of control into the hosts of violent Otherworld denizens.

Why the surprise? Well, because Strange did nothing to result in this turn of events. However, he saved the detailed analysis for later when said mystical twirling device of doom glanced off the side of a building and headed straight for him. Strange rolled his eyes and flew away, resigned to another round of evasion.

But the sword didn’t follow him. Instead, though wobbling and slowing, it came to a screeching halt half buried in Belasco’s skull. The entire area shut down, quiet as they gazed upon the sight. Eyes glossy and still, the Otherworld warlord dropped from the sky and into the murky darkness below, his body descending faster than the streaks of blood flowing from his fatal wound like miniature, gravity defying rivers.

Crash went his body as it collapsed the roof of a burnt car.

A great shrill drowned the night. Fury of the worst kind embraced the remaining demons. They became suicidal, charging as one and not caring to adjust their tactics. Somewhat battered, Strange couldn’t hold off the waves and waves of opponents, and eventually, two of them latched onto his legs and deemed it to necessary to either yank his legs off to send him on a one-way meeting to the cement.

Plummeting, the Sorcerer Supreme had a clear view of Brian Braddock being gashed from all sides. He looked tired, and every new set of marks staggered him further as he approached the limit of his superhuman endurance. Gambit did even worse: only the force of his dwindling kinetic explosions kept him alive and even then probably not for long. Emma and Betsy appeared dead already, the two lying atop each other in a picture still frame. Storm was on her way to joining them, the missing chunk in her side and the continued pummeling by the Magneto look-alike making her quieter by the second.

A spark broke through the demonic legions and lit up the night sky. Far away off in the horizon, a ball of fire hurled toward the Empire State Building at an unbelievable speed. On closer inspection, the figure wasn’t a ball but rather a bird, a huge bird composed of pure, awe-inspiring flames. Though he never saw it firsthand before, Doctor Strange guessed that this was the glorious Phoenix, the same one which confounded his friend Charles to no ends, the same force that could make--or break--a galaxy with a single thought.

The bird soared high above and increased its size, eventually taking up the entire Manhattan skyline. Every eye glued itself onto the divine manifestation, and for a moment, every one held their breaths. In the middle floated four people: X’ian, Rachel, Logan, and Jean. The eldest woman smiled at everything that was beneath her remarkable aura. She looked... peaceful, like one who knew and was comfortable with her fate.

The coming seconds, Doctor Strange decided, would be extremely interesting.

*****************

“Mom, what happened to Manhattan?”

“A great tragedy.”

“No shit, Jeanie. Never thought I’d live to see the day when the Big Apple would look a flamin’ lot like Tombstone. Place looks more fucked up than an aftermath o’ Cable’s fights with Stryfe.”

“Logan, watch your language. My daughter is standing next to you.”

“The kid’s heard worse, Red, tons worse. Now, you gonna fill us in on the cosmic details or are we just whistlin’ in the dark?”

“Thousands of lives have been lost today all in the name of one person’s revenge. Bright futures have been snuffed out and existence has changed in a fundamental way. After tonight, the mutant-human relationship will never be the same. After tonight, the Professor’s dream will be set back innumerable years. After tonight, the X-Men will be needed more than ever.

“The Phoenix has made its judgment. While the wounds run deep, they are only wounds: the world has the opportunity to heal and within that healing process, better itself. The journey will be difficult, but the bonds tempered in these trying times can become the foundation for a brighter tomorrow.”

“What don’t kill ya only makes ya stronger.”

“No, whatever doesn’t kill you only hurts a lot.”

“X’ian! That was really negative of you.”

“Sorry Rachel but it’s true.”

Jean beamed at her three companions. “From the ashes, another world will rise. The wrongs of today cannot be undone but they can, and must be, prevented from happening again. All of you have a role to play; all of you must work together to uphold the Phoenix’s judgment.”

“Us? What ‘bout you, Red?”

“I am the judge, Logan. I’ve already interfered too much because I love all of you so. I must leave the world’s destiny in your hands, otherwise, whatever comes to pass will be nothing more than a reflection of what I want it to be, not what it was meant to be.”

“Wait just a damned minute-”

“This is as far as the future goes. Every moment from now on will be a product of your hands, not Destiny’s, not Apocalypse’s, not anyone else’s. The future ends now and your present begins.”

*****************

They were losing Kurt. Hank tried his best with Forge’s futuristic first aid kit but nothing worked. Somehow, the inadvertent head-to-head contact with Kevin Ford had decayed a chunk of his cerebral cortex, the outermost region of the brain responsible for memory, higher thought, and sensory analysis. Due to the blow and decay, blood began stagnating inside Kurt’s cranium, exerting undue pressure on certain regions and robbing many areas of oxygen.

He slipped in and out of consciousness while Hank fussed and mussed. Though Forge equipped his kit with the best instruments, he geared most of it toward treating punctures and burns, not brain trauma. Then again, who ever heard of a brain surgery kit? Added to the lack of proper tools were Hank’s meaty, unwieldy hands courtesy of Tessa, her jumpstart power, and his own secondary mutation.

No one else had the expertise, not Scott, not Forge, not Jubilee, and not any of the students. Hank had the knowledge but not a means. As a doctor, he couldn’t gather himself to talk someone else through the procedure: the chance for failure was just too great.

Do no harm. Damn his fat digits, failing him again. All he could do now was hope, and when treating physical trauma to the brain, hope didn’t cut it.

“Jean.”

Everyone gathered in the dilapidated husk of the building spared Scott a glance. He seemed fixated on the windows despite strict instructions from none other but himself to stay hidden and avoid confrontation while Hank dealt with Kurt.

“Down with you,” said Forge, putting a hand on the fearless leader’s shoulder, “Jean might be out there but getting us noticed isn’t warranted.”

“No, Jean, she’s-”

The Phoenix illuminated the depressing night and chased away the shadows like naughty preschoolers. Flames wove into their sanctuary and touched every one present, some caresses, some pats, some formless smiles, and to Scott, a kiss, one passionate, loving, and sad all at once. While these X-Men gaped at the Phoenix’s power, a cocoon of energy spun around Kurt and burned.

Dead skin peeled away. Internal bruising scattered. Decrepit gray matter respawned. Where bone was once weak it now became strong. Blood flowed again, precious air bringing him back from the verge of a coma.

*****************

Warren feebly kicked at the hand holding his right ankle. His enhanced physiology gifted him with stronger but lighter bones fit for flight, but the iron grip crushed his leg like a tin can. Forward the demon pulled as it tried to fit a large Warren through a small hole. Small hole? Where did the small hole come from? Well, as hard as Bobby worked, even he couldn’t keep repairing his ice dome fast enough for it to withstand the combined efforts of Otherworld’s worst.

A strong armed individual punched a hole through the ice and the rest wasn’t far behind, at least according to their commotions.

“Hold on, Warren!”

A cold, white beam streaked into the hole and blindsided the demon who had its hand on Warren. The thing let go: one crisis adverted but the time spent on the split second diversion weakened the already weakening dome, allowing those outside to shatter a good sized opening in the top.

Ugly. The word spun around in Bobby’s head like a child after a case of Mountain Dew. If having rotting fangs, unsightly bulges, and puss spewing warts weren’t enough, this... this... personification of ugly had a hunchback, brown and green slime all over him, hairs where hairs shouldn’t be, blacked nails, old people’s skin, and a second mouth on its forehead. On its forehead! And the little mini-mouth gurgled and hissed even more than its big brother!

What an ugly son of a bitch. Or was this a woman? What an ugly bitch? Did it have a gender? Crap.

Bobby felt the urge to upchuck his dinner. Fortunately, he realized that the only thing he had for dinner was Tessa so he didn’t have to taste his typical repast of tacos, applesauce, fried rice, and rainbow sherbet Gerber-baby style.

Yeah, fried rice wasn’t too good half digested, but rainbow sherbet and applesauce, whew, that tasted good even after hanging a u-turn on the esophagus expressway.

That’s it, think about the culinary viability of vomit instead of looking at vomit given life. Bobby blasted the newly christened Ugly in the face and while watching he, she, or it tumble out of sight was fun, watching Ugly’s inbred siblings--Fugly and Scrambledeggwithsteaksauceface--come up to the batter’s box wasn’t.

They lunged, he blasted, more of the dome collapsed. Ugly’s extended family crashed the party, and for once, Iceman didn’t have enough ice for them all. As he augmented his body to drive back these things as much as possible, a cool fire wrapped around the dome’s remains and painted the surroundings with an orange tint. Every demon the fire touched got snuffed out of existence, and this wasn’t the normal, physical snuff out of existence: this was a gone-from-earth-without-a-trace-not-even-a-chance-to-scream snuff out of existence.

In his interesting life, Bobby had only seen this kind of fire once, and that one time ended badly. “What the fuck?”

The fire, after twirling around Warren, spoke to him like God speaking to Moses. “Calm down Bobby, I’m right here.”

*****************

“Mama!” Rogue called out again as she flew in the air. The ruins of Battery Park stared back at her, unwilling to give up any information. Everything was so dark after the portal closed, like a desert ghost town or dried up oasis.

Mystique didn’t make finding her easy: her dark blue skin blended into the night and unintentionally hid her... assuming the portal didn’t suck her in.

Rogue shook her head to get rid of the terrible thought. She was there for lots of the Illyana’s troubles and though she had problems with many people in her life, she wouldn’t wish the younger Rasputin’s fate on anyone else.

Hence the attempts to embrace Betsy. Hence the mounting dread in the pit of her stomach. Always the story with Mystique: here today, gone tomorrow, though not always of her volition. Last thing Rogue wanted now was to have her mama gone again. They had things to discuss, concerns to resolve, and if all went well, a relationship to salvage.

The little bit she read of Irene’s last diary painted her parents as loving and compassionate, a huge departure from their apparently hostile, uncaring façade. She hoped... actually, hoped was too strong a word. She wanted the diary to be true.

However, true or not, it wouldn’t make a difference if Mystique was missing or dead.

“Mama!”

When her voice died down, the Phoenix--the PHOENIX!--hugged the city like a mother hen. The few times she witnessed the manifestation, bad things happened: worlds ended, nefarious plans hatched, and Shi’ar got all up in arms. On the plus side, the sudden brightness reveled her mother below. Even high up here Rogue saw the wounds on her mother and cringed.

“Go to her.”

That voice! “Jean?”

The Phoenix’s glory touched her hand and gently pulled her down, down to the motionless Mystique. “She needs you.”

*****************

Alex got Sam breathing again but the elder Guthrie didn’t stir.

“He ain’t dead!” yelled Paige as she wriggled in her bonds, “Sam! Say somethin’!”

Bishop had a better idea. “Havok, release us so we can be of assistance.”

Before Alex could answer, an orange light wrapped around their eyes and separated them visually from each other. Fires burned away the dreaded mutant collars, pitiful ashes of synthetic material and circuitry rolling onto and off of their shoulders like loose lint. Ice pooled at their feet and metal unwound itself: total kinetic control, and Jean exerted a miniscule fraction of the ability. With nothing but a dismissive thought, she freed the three and proceeded to save the fourth.

“Wake up, Sam, it’s not your time yet.”

*****************

A mouth bit through her sword arm. Screaming, Amanda struck the monster in its head but the stubby little think kept its powerful jaws clenched. Others saw Limbo’s mistress in trouble and drooled to be the one to strike the killing blow. One of the opportunistic vultures, a demon with a single, sharp horn, lowered his head, closed its eyes, and charged into Amanda. The soft tearing of flesh and the crackle of brittle bone satisfied its ears.

When it opened its eyes, it expected to see a human impaled on its horn. What it found instead was its mouthy ally dead, teeth still clenched through Magik’s arm. The wily magician had used her attacker as a shield! The horned one recognized this fact too late: a brick red fist came from the side and pulverized its face.

Mikey smiled smugly. That arrogant lady owed him now. While he never proclaimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, Mikey noticed clot when he saw it. Some weak person would never be the focus of so many of these “demons.” Hell, some weak person would never be able to fight off these things. Her sure strides pegged her as a woman who got her way all the time whether by coercion or force.

Yeah, Mikey knew power when he saw it and these superhero types were the same: headstrong and honor bound. He had a get out of jail free card now; whatever he did thirty minutes ago didn’t matter anymore. With a word from this lady, people would probably be calling him a hero too.

Well, that’s if he lived, which at the moment wasn’t a guarantee.

Not used to these kinds of massive fights, Mikey thought himself safe While the bulky, brick red bruiser gloated, demons moved. A pair of them crashed against the back of Mikey’s knees. Once brought low, others piled on top of him. Mikey’s mutations--enhanced strength, thickened skin, and the cool color pigment--allowed him to cast aside his first few attackers. They kept coming, attracted by the prospect of death and food.

And Amanda tried to save Mikey, she really did. Not her fault she had trouble keeping herself alive. What was that line from that movie, Shawshank Redemption? “Sudden, serious trauma causes the victim to bite down hard. In fact, I hear the bite reflex is so strong they have to pry the victim’s jaw open with a crowbar.”

Amanda didn’t have a crowbar handy--teeth brushed against bone. The world got lighter, slower, and her soulsword, wielded in her off-hand now, became heavy. Demons, demons all around and she couldn’t fight them off anymore. A quickly mumbled spell sent a conical blast of mystical energies around her, enough to push back the masses but not enough to hurt them in the slightest.

The demons pushed away from Mikey. Blood covered his brick red body, missing chunks and gleaming white bone showing through. Terror overcame Amanda: that was going to be her in a few seconds. These things draped themselves on the mutant for mere moments, and in that time, they chewed him into a half-consumed snack.

She’d seen it happen before but she never thought she’d be in a position for this to befall her. As she wove another spell, a small, doll-like creature jumped at her neck. She backhanded the bouncy fellow away, delaying her spell and letting others close in.

Had she been less of a heroine, Amanda would’ve teleported away to Limbo and healed herself. However, she understood that she was the only line of defense between these cannibalistic misfits and the scared survivors upstairs. She couldn’t leave not because she wasn’t able but because her conscience wouldn’t allow it.

Being the ruler of Limbo, she expected a fate like this one day. Fighting in the Otherworld wasn’t exactly simple or beautiful. Didn’t like it, but the thought rooted itself in the back of her mind. The innocents had no inklings of this grizzle death, and as long as Amanda still breathed, they didn’t need to know about it.

Which was why she stood tall and faced those lunging demons with a staunch, quiet determination. There were worse fates than dying for others, though few quite so painful, gruesome, and just overall disturbing. Morbidly, Amanda wondered if anyone would be able to identify her remains when all was said and done.

A fiery, rolling cloud crested the earthen barrier Meggan created. Everything it touched it wiped out of existence, the demons not even getting a chance to gutturally voice their protests. The destructiveness radiating off the flames gave no comfort to Amanda. Probably one of Belasco’s impressive spells, cast in annoyance to kill everyone not himself.

When the fire hit her, the dead demon on her arm melted away. Bone reknit itself while veins stretched, connected, and pumped. Muscles covered the bones, themselves covered by growing flesh. Where she expected nothingness, she got a warming peace.

Meggan, who Amanda lost sight of mid-battle, was the only other person not burned away. “What is this?” the blonde gasped, a child’s wonder in her eyes. “It’s so... so...”

“Hello Meggan, Amanda.”

“Oh, it’s Jean! Hi Jean!”

*****************

Fantomex started. His jaw creaked like something awful and a bad case of double vision stalked him. Lower front teeth felt loose, too loose for comfort. Hung over--if he had to sum up how he felt, that’s how he’d put it. All he wanted now was a shot of morphine and a two month vacation but that was asking too much.

Probably couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the vacation after almost getting his head knocked off.

Right, head knocked off. One of the marks almost put him six feet under with a wallop. And why was his surroundings swamped? Double vision notwithstanding, a good bunch of people made their homes up here. What happened to the X-Men prisoners? How about Magneto and his flunkies? Shit, where was Magneto? Fantomex had express orders (not to mention a significant part of his payment) to protect Magneto at all cost.

His employer wouldn’t be happy, no sir, not happy at all.

The words “pay cut” rang through his stuffed up head. Two other words quickly followed: “imminent doom.” Upon closer inspection, everyone on the roof who didn’t have decaying flesh, rancid body odor, mean-looking teeth, or glowing red eyes was up shit creek without a boat or paddle.

Ororo Munroe--better known as Storm, leader of the globetrotting Xtreme X-Men--hung limply on a guard rail, her snow white hair splattered with dark blotches and streaks, probably blood. Monsters converged on a muscle bound man, the same man who punched Fantomex into next week. Through he looked well off compared to Storm, he tired, his strikes skipping half a beat after every few seconds.

Yup, imminent doom, and if anything caught Fantomex sneaking peeks here and there, he’d be facing it too.

Time to blow this joint.

E.V.A., dormant till now, opened a hatch and let a small package slip to the ground, unnoticed. In it was a premium blend of Weapons Plus’ newest explosives. Though diminutive, two pounds of the classified, experimental material could carve away an entire New York city block. Whoever said great things couldn’t come in small packages?

Sensing his chance, Fantomex crawled to the ledge. He watched as two women--a diamond Emma Frost and a screwed up looking Elisabeth Braddock--both lying on the ground, stirred and snatched the attention of their enemies. Perfect diversion to cover his own escape.

Up and over the ledge he jumped. E.V.A. took off and dove down, her speed aided by her greater mass. Spreading his arms out slowed his fall, enough for his vessel to swoop in under him and pick him up before he became the newest menu item at the Roadkill Café.

“Get me outta here,” the man bit out, jaw sore and swelling. “The job’s gone to hell.”

There went his payday; stood to reason he required payback. From his pocket came a remote control, the detonator for his Weapons Plus special delivery. The large red button lit up showing that the device was indeed armed.

He hated failing. Showed he was human, but damn it, he wasn’t human. He was better than human, better than mutant. Failure reminded him of his shortcomings and the superiority of others.

With a growl and a fury all to its own, Fantomex pressed the red button...

... just as Kitty Pryde, baby and camerawoman still in tow, phased onto the roof of the Empire State Building and straight through the present Fantomex left behind. The electronics, disrupted by Kitty’s ghostly passage, fizzled and frazzled, emitting smoke as it short circuited.

Without guidance, the charges didn’t explode. Without an explosion, Fantomex frowned at his remote. “The hell’s wrong with this thing?”

He banged the little black device against his knee once, twice, and-

The sky lit up as if someone pulled the sun into position.

“Unidentified presence,” E.V.A. squawked, “Brace yourse-”

The Phoenix snatched the bug-like ship into its massive talons. Here today, gone tomorrow--when the Phoenix stretched its appendages again, nothing remained. Oh no, it didn’t stop there though, not by a long shot. It raked its massive limbs across the top of the Empire State Building, dealing help and harm with impunity.

In one stroke, Storm’s empty eyes regained its glassy awareness and the false Magneto perished in a self-contained bonfire. The cracks in Emma’s body fused together, missing shards of her suddenly finding themselves back where they belonged. Remy stopped bleeding not because he couldn’t bleed anymore but because the healing fire filled his deep gashes and made him fine again. Doctor Strange stopped falling when the edge’s of the Phoenix’s manifestation curled around the demons dragging him down and disincorporated them. As Brian swung his fist into another one of his opponents, it puffed away in a cloud of ash and almost caused him to stumble onto his face. Being superhero material, he got away with looking like a drunken idiot but remaining on his feet. The Professor, struggling with his collar, found it missing and his vast powers returned to him.

And Betsy... the Phoenix had something special for dear Betsy, burning away her demonic appendages and whisking her off into a nowhere framed by the distinct fiery bird and accented by two red heads nestled in its bosom, Rachel and Jean.

“Geez, you look terrible.”

Reinvigorated by the cosmic forces at work, Betsy self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks Rachel, I needed to know that.”

Torn clothes mended and dirt disappeared, leaving Betsy appearing--and feeling--much more at ease. Where gaping wounds once showed like badges, immaculate skin took its place. Jean flashed an apologetic smile for both the oversight and her daughter’s comment. “Feeling better?”

“Not really. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Since when has it not been complicated?”

A chuckle escaped Jean. “Emma is already rubbing off on you.”

The knowing tone behind her sentence stirred a reflexive defense. “She calls it business acumen and women’s intuition.”

To that, Rachel scrunched her forehead. “Doesn’t she mean sarcasm and cynicism?”

“Now, now,” calmed Jean in a most motherly way, “Time is running short and I still have to finish my goodbyes.”

Goodbyes? The significance stopped Betsy in her tracks. “Jean, this is not time to be joking around.”

“I’m not joking, Betsy, and that’s why I brought both of you here. The Phoenix finished the task it set out to do and is about to leave. It’s giving me the chance to impart some last words with those I hold dear, so I’m making the most of it.”

“Mom, you’re talking to other people at the same time? How many?”

“Too many,” sighed Jean, “I don’t have the time to say everything I want to, but at least it’s more than what many others get.”

Confused, Betsy asked, “What’s going on? What happened to you?”

“Betsy, only you and Rachel have ever felt the true vastness of the Phoenix. I... I... I can’t explain it adequately to everyone else who hasn’t wielded its strength. To borrow from Plato, the Phoenix is a Form given substance. It is justice, its concept and its execution. It is rebirth, and with it, all the associations of life and death. While the Form itself will always be everywhere, the substance can only reside in one place, there to reinforce its Form wherever it is weakest.

“Like I told Logan, the Phoenix has reached a judgment about this world. Now, it is needed elsewhere.” She paused to massage the bridge of her nose. “I am needed elsewhere. I cannot remain here any longer or I will risk turning everything I’ve come to love into a twisted idealization of my basest desires. My presence along has already put a strain on the world and it doesn’t need any more.”

Tasting the Phoenix--the memory seemed like one in another life. However, no matter how long it was, Betsy could never forget the searing, all-consuming power that threatened to passed on to her. Its very presence almost warped her mind. Come to think about it, its very presence had warped the minds of others, others like the Hellfire Club’s own Mastermind. Just a touch of the essence connected him to the cosmos and made him insane, not that insanity was a long stretch for the man, but still.

Power so strong couldn’t be fully contained. When a mere thought could alter the fate of civilizations, remaining anywhere too long spelled trouble. Anyone who never brushed against the Phoenix would find the sentiment preposterous; after all, god-like power meant god-like control too, right?

Wrong.

Jean could control the Phoenix but the Phoenix couldn’t control Jean. It was a presence molded into the body and spirit that was Jean. It conformed to the red head’s desires, not the other way around. Whatever the host, the temple for this awesome power, wanted, the Phoenix made into reality. Look at Rachel and what happened to her even when she did possess the cosmic entity: Ahab, her slaver in the distant and extinct future, imposed his will upon her to command the Phoenix.

Not to say it had no will of its own, but what it did depended mainly upon its host. The potential for abuse? Extraordinary. The potential for good? Likewise. Feast or famine hinged on the host.

And it couldn’t have picked a better host than Jean. Self-sacrificing, benevolent, intelligent, wise, responsible, fair--the woman had her weaknesses but her strengths far outstripped her shortcomings. This woman would give up everything for the ones she loved, and right here, right now, though she could disregard her altruistic leanings, she was about to leave so others would have a chance to lead their own lives.

Betsy didn’t understand the intricacies of the Phoenix; she understood its power. She respected it, rightfully feared it, and Jean called upon her to drudge up the understanding.

“I won’t pretend I know any of this as well as you or Rachel,” said Betsy, “but what can you say to me and her that you can’t say to everyone else? And in private no less?”

“I need to ask a favor, one from each of you.”

Rachel, who stayed oddly silent till now, folded her arms and stared at her mom. “You don’t need to even ask, Mom. Bad enough I’m watching you go, I’m not going to make things worse by telling you no.”

“And you, Betsy?”

“Between our friendship and my personal debt to you, I can’t refuse.”

She let out a small breath. A woman who felt the universe’s pulse was anxious? Huh, imagine that. Jean faced her daughter first.

They shared many of the same features, attributes, and mentalities. Though their lives diverged, the bond between mother and daughter couldn’t be denied. Pearly white fingers framed a flushed face like an artisan examining her masterpiece for one last time before parting with it. Jean loved her children with a scary fierceness, but of them all, she demonstrated that love to Rachel the most.

It wasn’t favoritism but rather an apology for past mistakes. There was a time when Jean didn’t even acknowledge Rachel because she had no part of her upbringing. Those days, however, were long gone, but Jean still felt the tiniest pin pricks of guilt. From this guilt blossomed a relationship stronger than either anticipated--it wasn’t an unwelcome revelation given the older woman’s maternal instincts.

Jean pulled her daughter into a strong embrace. “I need you to look after your father, Rachel. The two of you have never been very close, but you have to put that aside. He is a stubborn man who retreats into himself to deal with his emotions, and if no one is there to pick him up, he’ll stay in his misery. I’m asking you as your mother and his wife: follow him when he retreats and try your hardest to let him know he’s not alone.”

“He’s not alone though,” Rachel insisted. “You’re still here. The Phoenix won’t cast you away like that. I know it doesn’t work that way. It’ll protect you!”

“I may observe but I cannot interfere. No matter how much pain your father is in, I can’t even whisper into his mind that I’m watching over him. To the world, after tonight, I will be gone--that is the best way. In some aspects, it allows others to move on. If I leave a possibility of my return, those like your father will always live in this moment and never let go.”

“You want me to lie to everyone so they’ll forget about you?”

“No, I want you to be there for your father.”

“And what about telling people you’re dead and gone?”

Kissing her daughter’s forehead, Jean whispered, “You’re a grown girl. Do what feels right and I’ll approve.”

“But Mom-”

“Do what feels right.”

Then she turned to Betsy. “I’m afraid the favor I’m asking of you is more difficult than Rachel’s.”

“Worse than dealing with Scott’s self-pity tantrum? My, how am I going to survive?”

One spoon of Betsy, one spoon of Emma, and mix well--that was the recipe to the woman half-smirking, half-tearing up in front of Jean. The red head hated to do this to her friend and dump her from one fire to the next, but of all the X-Men, she was the best suited to the task at hand.

What task, you ask?

“I need you to keep the X-Men together.”

Betsy wasn’t so sure. “Me? Jean, it’s only been a week since I figured out I wasn’t lying in a coffin. I can feel it in people’s mind when they look at me: they’re doubtful at who I am. Keep the X-Men together? I can barely keep myself together.”

“You are the only one who can.”

“Why not Logan? Why not Emma? Why not Ororo? What about Rogue? Did I forget about the Professor?”

“Logan will take my departure very... difficultly. The Professor has his own demons to slay before he can feel confident in himself and his dream again. As for Emma, Ororo, and Rogue, those three represent the diverging philosophies of the mansion.”

“What’s wrong with a little diversity?”

“Emma is the consummate teacher who wants to shelter young mutants until they can protect themselves. Ororo is the problem-solver, there to take on the threats to mutanthood on a global scale with a small team she is familiar with. Rogue is like Ororo except she, because of her background with Mystique, is much more open-minded to diplomacy, at least with former enemies. Ororo and Rogue’s approaches put the mansion and students in danger which annoys Emma who believes they are being irresponsible. Rogue’s willingness to let others into her trust--those like Joseph and Sabertooth-- irks Ororo’s growing jadedness with the world. There are divides in the ranks, and if left unchecked, the X-Men will splinter into meaningless pieces.”

Betsy caught the subtleties of Jean’s observations. With Scott, Logan, Charles, and Jean herself gone or preoccupied, no one could mediate the drama and strained lines of communications. There wouldn’t be enough instructors at the school or enough well-trained people to fill the rosters of two teams. The X-Men had to stick together and Jean wanted Betsy to be the that glue.

Ororo trusted her. If not, she would’ve never made it, however abrupt the stay was, onto the hunt for Destiny’s diaries.

Rogue trusted her. Their lone conversation in the week showed a relationship born of mutual respect and camaraderie.

Emma? Well, Betsy was the only one who could even claim a smidgen of sway over the former White Queen.

Everyone else fell into one of these camps: the teachers, the globe-trotters, and traditionalists. It was like Generation X, X-Factor, and the old X-Men all stuck under one roof.

Just a train crash waiting to happen. Just like old times.

While Betsy didn’t fully understand what Jean was going through, she was also the only one with connections to the three budding mentalities.

“You want me to play peacekeeper?”

“I can’t interfere anymore. I must let go and watch this world decide its own fate, but I love it too much to leave it adrift without some semblance of help. You understand that I’ll be here, if only in spirit. You understand that while I love all of you, I must leave for the greater good. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know one thing: a world with the X-Men is much better than a world without it. For all of our faults, we continue to improve the lives of both humans and mutants. For all the troubles we’ve caused, we’ve also stopped more than our fair share and saved the masses from certain doom too many times to count. I’m asking you as your friend to keep Charles’ dream alive.”

“You’re talking like he’s not going to be here anymore.”

“After what happened tonight, few will listen to him. Emotions are running too high.”

They didn’t need to say anything about Scott and Logan. The men would deal in their own private ways.

To help or not to help--that was the question. Devoting herself to the Cause again... so soon... Did she have the fortitude? Did she have the ability? Most importantly, was she abusing Emma’s trust? Was she manipulating her to fit into Jean’s goals, goals that didn’t even guarantee a better tomorrow?

Was it too late to back out of her promise?

Only one way out of this. “I’ll try my best, Jean.”

The words left unsaid: “Don’t blame me if my best isn’t enough.” It was a page straight out of Emma’s most shifty annals which promised nothing but had shades of a job well done.

The twinkle in Jean’s eyes showed that she acknowledged the stipulation. “That’s all I can ask of you or anyone else, Betsy.”

*****************

- To be continued...

Chapter 57

Title: The Last Gasp

Chapter 56: The Last Gasp

A light mist hung over the Xavier Institute. Thunderclouds rolled around the sky shadowing the sun and chasing away its light. What remained of the mansion limply pouted like a dying pet, sadness, pain, and regret hanging from its droopy awnings and bowed pillars. The smells of pine dulled themselves in the relentless cold, their pleasantness offset by the sting of a land on the verge of a frozen season. Blades of grass swayed in the winter’s winds, each coping in a way the man with a lifetime’s of disappointment couldn’t.

And the man was Scott Summers, alone and standing before the marble gravestone of his wife. The simple epitaph read “Jean Grey-Summers. She Will Rise Again.” No coffin lay in the soil: there wasn’t a body to bury.

Wife dead. Mansion shattered. Everything Scott Summers ever worked for, everything he believed would be his rock--wrecked, gone, gutted. Never again would he see the love in his wife’s eyes or feel the homeliness of this mansion’s embrace. Never would he hold Jean in his arms and make her feel like the only woman on the planet.

Never again.

“Never again.”

“Calm down, Summers. This will only be what? The third time you’ve buried her?”

He craned his neck to see Emma Frost in her diamond form, arms crossed and infuriating grin on her face. She wordlessly screamed of condescension, the mischievous twinkle in her reflective glare outdone only by the immaculate sparkle of her body. As droplets of condensation beaded off of her, she gained more radiance till it almost seemed like an angelic halo pulsated from her.

Angelic might’ve described her features, but it didn’t describe her words. “It must be getting rather tedious, Scott dear.” She walked up closer to him, her lower lip jutted out mockingly. “All these reruns of your sorrow--it’s sad but in the funny kind of way.”

“This is not funny!” Scott yelled, the powerful energy behind his glasses flashing with his anger.

“Oh, I think it is and you know it.”

Years ago, he would’ve struck Emma for belittling his grief. Woman be damned, she went too far and even the fairer sex wasn’t above human decency. Since she strutted around like an overgrown engagement ring, Scott surmised a good optic blast would shiver her timbers enough to shut up. Years ago, that’s what he would’ve done, his mind given in to the impulse

Years ago, as in two years ago.

Things changed since the final encounter with Apocalypse. Cable and Jean freed him from the madman but things changed. Scott changed. Others thought he couldn’t feel, somehow his emotions trampled by his horrific experience under Apocalypse’s possession.

They didn’t grasp the truth.

He felt, but all he felt was crushing helplessness. Somewhere along the way, Apocalypse took away his hope, a blow much greater than any other attack he could’ve plotted. New days didn’t excite him anymore; new opportunities, once grabbed with fervor, now languished. The world was dark, the next great wrong always on the horizon like an eternal specter.

Scott lost his hope. He tried to convince himself otherwise, but even when he woke next to his beautiful wife and curled in the warmth of his own bed in a mutant sanctuary he helped forge, he couldn’t see a brighter day ahead. Tethering on the edge of emotional ruin, he balanced as best he could, forcing himself to ignore his burden.

In the back of his mind, he knew how close he was to retreating into himself for good. He knew the extent of his troubles, but he refused to give it power by acknowledging it. For two years, he kept up his act, sometimes at the expense of the relationships he held most dear.

He leaned on others like a crutch. He pushed the X-Men harder so he wouldn’t have the energy to hear the constant doubts in his soul. He distanced Jean so they’d argue and fight, so when they were alone there’d never be silence. Everything went well, each distraction enough to pull him from the brink of oblivion, each well-calculated, manufactured struggle (and subsequent victory) enough to carry him through the next day.

And then Jean died. Well, she left and said they’d never see each other again. Said he had to move on, fight the good fight, finish what they started, make the world a better place for their children, and then learn to love again. She explained but he didn’t listen. All he knew was her absence and who it was caused by.

“Fantomex,” he said with vile hatred, “Tessa.”

He slammed his fist against Jean’s marble gravestone. “My eyes were opened. Something about the X-Men makes others want to kill us. Nothing we do--none of the good we do--makes a difference.”

“A difference to who? To people? To the crazies who want us to make them famous? My God, Summers, who cares about them? Haven’t you been in this situation enough times to realize that there will be zealous, jealous morons till the end of time?”

“You’re not helping, Emma.”

“Help? If you want help, go to the Hellfire Club and fuck the nearest big breasted red head. No, I’m here to tell you to pick yourself off of Jean’s grave and get yourself together.” She pointed to the back of her, to where the mansion decayed, unattended. “That is not going to fix itself. Students who count on us for instruction and shelter will not disappear into nothingness. Every single X-Man, who is running around in the student dormitories because their own rooms are ruined, will undoubtedly let you wallow in your own misery for however long you want. Me? I’m too impatient to let you grind this institution to a halt.”

Scott barked with bitter laughter. “Is this your attempt to comfort me? It’s endearing.”

“This is my attempt to get your head out of your rectum. I’ll give you credit: for all your boy scout ways, you have a talent for leadership and an unfathomable sway over your teammates. I know of no other person who can try as little as you do but yet attain so much respect just by leading his life. Your dirty paws have a stranglehold around this school’s pulse. Where you go, it goes with you.”

She locked her eyes on him like a bird of prey. “Xavier is in one of his ‘woe is me’ moods, marinating in shame he can’t change. Do I have a modicum of sympathy? Yes, but sympathy won’t change the fact that the school is destroyed. I want to reopen the school with my own funds, perhaps even work out a lease with the old man for his land. I need you to-”

“Forget it,” he interrupted. “This dream is over. Whatever else I had left in me, this school took away. Jean’s gone and others are considering leaving. It’s done, Emma. The costumes, the heroics, the selflessness... it’s done. I want no part of this fight for justice anymore because it’s just not worth it.”

With that, he ventured into the thickening mist.

“You can do so much more than just walk away.” The call--the challenge--halted him midstep. “Think of the marvelous teachers we could be with your talents and my unwavering methods. Think of the new generation of gifted, bloody brats we can stop from becoming another Tessa or Magneto. Why, we could even inspire them to greatness! If you want to honor your now-dead-again wife, you’d pick up where she and Charles left off.”

A handful of long strides later, she caught up to him and put a sturdy, dispassionate hand on his shoulder. “I need your help to keep this staff of well-trained mutants together. And together, imagine what we can do. Don’t you want to inherit the earth?”

Sighing, Scott yanked away from Emma’s grasp. His jaw clenched harder, set into a grim mold no human face should ever achieve. “Someone else can have it,” he replied. “I’m tired of the loss, the pain, the expectations, and most importantly, I’m tired of you.

“No. I quit.”

*****************

“Good Morning America” filming from an ABC affiliate in Charleston, West Virginia...

“Today is perhaps the darkest time in national history. I say perhaps because we thought it couldn’t get any worse than 9/11, but we were wrong. The official death toll is still being calculated and experts estimate the number in the tens to hundred thousands. Yes, hundred thousands. That’s saying that about one in fifteen people in Manhattan died.”

The reporter shook his head and sighed. “What else can you say?”

*****************

Excerpt from the front page of the Chicago Chronicle...

I have never seen such destruction. Those close to the blasts left nothing behind except for ashes. Whatever you think, that was not the worst fate possible. Oh no, not by far. Things came out from Battery Park, just rushed out and started gnawing on people and mutants like rack of lamb. I do not know what they were but they looked like things straight out of hell.

I was not a religious man, but after watching that scene, I tell you now that I get down on my knees every night and pray for all I am worth. I pray for those dead and those that have to bury their dead. I pray for those who pray for others because they themselves need prayers.

I still don’t know who I’m praying to. There might not be a god but I have seen the Devil...

*****************

“Where will you go?”

Logan shoved another wad of clothes into his olive green satchel. “Away,” he grunted in his customary fashion, “Probably back into the Canadian Rockies, home country.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“No. I ain’t fixin’ to tell no one either, elf, so keep yer mouth shut.”

Kurt moved aside as his stout friend reached around him to grab a flannel shirt from the collapsed closet. Yes, everyone said the mansion proper wasn’t safe, but one thing was for certain: the student dormitories didn’t have their stuff (or the spackled remnants of their stuff). By sheer luck, Kurt--who’d absconded to the area to salvage some personal affections--stumbled upon the scene of Logan packing and heading out on another one of his trips. He would’ve missed the stealthy Canadian if his room was in one of the other wings, but it wasn’t, so here they were.

“Mein freud, isn’t this a little sudden?”

“Sure is n’ that’s how I want it.”

Another pair of jeans crammed into the growing bag. His ways might’ve looked haphazard but Kurt noticed that Logan put a good deal of things into his lone piece of luggage. “Is that bag going to be enough?”

Stopping, Logan gave him one of those “Are you shittin’ me?” glances. “I survived fourth months in the jungles ‘o Cambodia with nothin’ but the clothes on my back. This,” he said, pointing to the bag, “is a damned luxury.”

In went a fistful of cigars and a box of matches.

“The last time you went on one of your trips, we ended up getting invited to a wedding in Japan.”

“Well, I guarantee there won’t be no weddin’ this time. Mariko’s dead n’ I got plenty o’ thinkin’ to do.”

“About Jean?”

“’bout Jean.”

“Logan-”

“Can it, elf. There ain’t nothin’ ta say unless you’d been there. Shit happened, I’m pissed, and that’s all you need to know.” He tightened the draw strings to his satchel and looped the burden onto his shoulders. “Got some soul searchin’ to do n’ it ain’t pretty.”

“When can we expect you back?”

“When I have my head screwed on straight.”

That could either be two days or two decades, an observation Kurt didn’t voice. Something troubled Logan, and in the German’s experience, the best way was to let him work through his problems in his own stubborn way. It wasn’t efficient but fewer people got killed.

As Logan readied himself to jump out the window, Kurt shook himself out of his revelry and blurted, “What about Jubilee?”

The man answered without hesitation. “Girl’s all grown up. She don’t need this sack o’ bones to keep her on her toes.” He considered his words for a second before adding, “If she asks, tell her I’m gone. If she don’t, she don’t.”

A strong breeze blew by and made Kurt blink. In the time his cat-like eyes closed and opened, Logan disappeared.

*****************

CNN’s “World News Update...”

“... and the generosity continues to pour into Manhattan. In the last forty eight hours, charities report over $100 million dollars have been donated to aid the search for survivors. All the branches of the United States armed forces have converged on the area to help police, firefighters, and civilians with food, shelter, and rescue.

“The private sector has also been heavily involved, evidenced by the three following standouts. Bristol-Myers Squibb, pharmaceutical giant, is providing free medication to the wounded to alleviate the strain on hospital supplies. Donald Trump, with the help of NBC, has started an international fundraiser expressly for the rebuilding process. Finally, embattled Frost Enterprises founder and CEO Emma Grace Frost has allowed the use of all Frost Enterprises facilities in the New York area. She has also privately recruited and flown in volunteers from around the globe including the likes of Captain America, security expert Silver Sable, and noted scientist Henry Pym.”

*****************

The last bag tumbled into the backseat. Hydraulic arms and mechanical servos put the bulky hover chair into the intimidating trunk. Shifting seats, automated everythings, and responsive hand controls greeted the car’s only occupant. For a fully loaded Lincoln town car, the luxury vehicle was surprisingly accommodating to the handicapped Professor.

He didn’t expect anything less since he poured so much money into it. Times like these he needed to get around without assistance and now was when every penny spent paid off.

A turn of the key and the engine purred to life. A piece of the dashboard rolled away and revealed a colorful monitor, on it dancing dots and real-time snapshots of surrounding traffic.

“Greetings Professor Charles Xavier,” said a disembodied, computer generated voice, “What is your destination this morning?”

The passenger side door opened without his approval. Blue, furry limbs lumbered their way into the spacious seat. Leather creaked under the shifting weight and frustrated wiggling. Despite the already larger-than-average arrangement, the bucket seat couldn’t comfortably fit three hundred some odd pounds of Hank McCoy.

Sheepishly, the good doctor smiled a toothy smile at his mentor. “They sure don’t make these things for the plus sized mutant, do they?”

“I’m afraid they don’t, Hank.”

“What a travesty! I’d be doing a great disservice if I didn’t battle this girth-based discrimination!”

Humor. Hank’s first, last, and best line of defense against the emotions boiling over within him. Charles made the observation ever since the nimble boy enrolled in his school. After all this time, after all the attempts to change this knee-jerk response into a more useful, self-critical tool, Hank’s manner went unchanged.

Failure. Charles couldn’t even handle something this small. What gave him the right to stand against the darkest demons of mutanthood? What kind of teacher was he? Did his methods drive Hank to be like this, constantly barraged by unbearable pressures and only able to cope one way? Did his vision cause Tessa’s vile bitterness?

Tessa... The lessons learned from teaching her gave the first generation of X-Men a better, firmer grasp on Charles’ mission. She was his guinea pig, and by treating her so, he misused her trust and set this series of catastrophic events into motion.

In a very direct way, Charles killed Jean. If he was nothing else, Charles was a responsible person. Others called him many things but he never shrunk away from his duty or his beliefs. He accepted every consequence of his actions; drawing the connection from him to Tessa to Jean wasn’t difficult. Responsibility accepted, but that did nothing about the regret.

A responsible man could still be too weak to shoulder the responsibilities. Words like betrayer, murderer, and above them, failure rolled around in his empty soul, sapping his will, drowning him in a cesspool of his own responsibilities.

Responsibilities he had to get away from, if only for a short while.

Hank cleared his throat. “You know the saying, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’ How come I only feel the sorrow and none of the sweetness?”

“It’s because we aren’t parting, Hank. I’m going on sabbatical.”

“While the mansion is in ruins? While all of us are still trying to cope with this immense tragedy Macbeth himself would cringe at?”

Charles finally looked at his student. “It’s time I’ve stepped back to reconsider my staunch views on mutant-human coexistence.”

“Such a retreat is one which I can relate to,” said Hank. “Perhaps a word of advice, Professor?”

“Of course.”

“A smart red head said to me once, ‘You can’t hide from adversity.’ Knowing that nugget of wisdom, the greatest thing I can offer to you is my unconditional support.”

“I appreciate your generous offer, but it’s a sabbatical, Hank.”

“It’s never just a sabbatical, Professor. We’ve known each other long enough to see the lackluster shine in our eyes. You’re tired, you’re unsure of yourself--you’re going on something more than a sabbatical. Wasn’t two winks and an eyelash ago when I was where you are.”

Every syllable hit too close for comfort. Charles put the Lincoln into reverse to signify his intention on leaving. “How are the others taking my forthcoming absence?”

“Oh my stars and garters, I’d tell you if I knew. I don’t think the news has even hit everyone yet.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Less fanfare. Less tearful goodbyes.”

“But what about the school?”

“As long as there are X-Men, the spirit of this institute will live on. The time and place will change, but the ideals set forth will be the same. Who knows? Perhaps someone else will come up with better methods to coexistence than my own. Change may not be a bad thing.”

“There you go again, talking like you’re never coming back and all expecting one of us to take up your untouchable mantle. See, my dear Professor? Methinks tis no mere sabbatical.”

*****************

Kitty held the tiny baby against her chest. She watched the slow, rhythmic breaths draw in and out. The old, lime green couch dominating the student commons provided the perfect perch for the two to lounge. Besides the minimum ambient lights, nothing else illuminated the usually bustling room. Students still weren’t allowed back on campus yet and there was serious discussions on what was going to happen to the mangled institute.

That, however, was neither here nor there. In the velvety haze of a tired night, those empty bottles, that jostled baby, and some dirty diapers became Kitty’s biggest concerns. Good thing none of those three were in effect right now. While the girl slept an innocent sleep, Kitty lost sleep over her earlier conversation with Doctor Strange.

The comment took the wind out of her sails. “Say that again?”

“Your suspicion is absolutely correct, Katherine.”

“But... but...”

“Reincarnation. Rebirth. Those are not just myths, especially in the Otherworld. Fate is not just a word but a powerful tie to time and reality itself. Yours and hers are interwoven together, impressive alone but stronger together, stronger than the sum of its parts even.”

He patted her on the shoulder. “This baby girl is Illyana reborn.”

“Didn’t we just free her from Belasco days ago?”

“The metaphysical does not run by a schedule, Kitty. Things happen, sometimes for no reason, sometimes under the direction of greater beings than ourselves. Make the most of this chance you’ve been given.”

“Chance? But Stephen-”

“You wished for her to have a better life. You wanted her to be happy and free of her torments, free of an existence punctuated by many bouts of sadness. You wanted her to have the childhood Belasco took away from her. This is your dream come true.”

Was it her dream come true or a nightmare waiting to happen? A child. The life snoring away required dedication and love. Having never been a mother (or for that matter, never thought about being a mother), Kitty didn’t know if she was capable of raising a child. On one hand, as Strange pointed out, this girl--this baby she had trouble referring to as Illyana--had the perfect chance to make right what went wrong with her previous life. On the other hand, Kitty had a good chance of screwing up what little happiness this girl was meant to have, reincarnation or not.

The effort. The sacrifice. The responsibility.

Felt like steel weights tied themselves to her ankles. The soul might’ve belonged to Illyana, but the experiences that made this infant into Kitty’s friend weren’t there. In Kitty’s eyes, forever and a day this little girl would live in Illyana Rasputin’s shadow. Could a friend who doubled as a secret love ever be treated like a daughter?

The weights grew heavier.

A mother? The word pulled Kitty back to her own marginally passable childhood. Mom and Dad didn’t abuse her, never even thought of it, but they did bestow a lifetime’s worth of apathy on her. They didn’t care and Kitty remembered the nights she lay in bed crying, wanting to please her parents, needing a small bit of attention.

She learned to shut off the need for familial approval, though if she was honest, she’d admit to the dull ache occasionally stabbing her heart. A parent was supposed to be loving and supportive. A parent wasn’t suppose to be totally consumed by divorce, promotions, and social status. A parent needed to be there for a child. Neither of Kitty’s parents did a good job, and the last thing she wanted was to bring the same uncared for life on this slumbering baby.

Mutanthood, especially mutanthood around the X-Men, left little time for children.

Kitty sighed to herself. “Villains attacking, people calling you freak, never knowing if your friends will come back from a mission alive.” She shook her head and stroked the light strands of hair. “Kid, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Turning her head, the brunette spotted Mystique standing by the hallway entrance in all her blue glory. Like a cat mewing at a cornered mouse, she exuded an air of playful derision. Her arms folded under her bust while her eyes danced like a naughty four year old’s.

“The baby isn’t going to tell you what to do,” said Mystique, “but talking is one of the few skills that takes little effort to learn. Trust me, when they’re old enough, they seem to forget how to shut up.”

As if the woman’s voice had an alarm, the little girl pried open her cute eyes and let out a most horrific wail. Despite her incredible genius, Kitty couldn’t stop the shock from seizing her face into an equally horrific and panicked expression. Chuckling, Mystique sauntered to the disturbance and slipped the baby into the crook of her arm. With a gentle swaying, a soft, matronly smile, and easy patting, baby Illyana morphed from banshee to Gerber baby.

“There, there, little baby,” Mystique sang as she slowly twirled around the room. Her voice, smooth, distinctive, melodic, and sweet, hit a pang of jealousy in Kitty. “Do not cry and I’ll sing you a lullaby. Care you know not, therefore you sleep, while over you watch do keep. Sleep, pretty darling. Do not cry, and I’ll sing you a lullaby.”

The child’s tears went away and her frown turned upside down. Her two palms clapped together in approval while her toes wiggled in rapt anticipation.

Mystique danced back over to Kitty and returned the girl to her initial resting place. “You should play with her some more. Even babies get bored. That and she’s probably hungry. When was the last time she had her milk?”

Play? Bored? Hungry? Milk? Forget all that, Kitty still hadn’t processed the sight of Mystique crooning a lullaby with a power that would make Aretha Franklin proud. “That was beautiful.”

“Answer the question, Pryde. When was the last time the kid’s had her milk?”

“A few hours ago. I... I...” Kitty’s face blushed scarlet red. “I lost track of time.”

“No wonder you X-Men have no children: they’d all starve to death because of how much you like to talk instead act.”

The remark put Kitty on the defensive, stress and doubt about Mystique’s character rallying her to reflexively retort, “You shouldn’t be one to talk after what you did to Kurt and Rogue.”

Took much to anger Mystique, a proven spy and literal chameleon. While she never professed to be the greatest parent ever, she did have a decent maternal instinct that she was proud about. Didn’t always show it, but she knew it was there. Few insulted that instinct, and those who did never did so again.

Ms. Katherine Pryde wasn’t going to be an exception.

“What do you know about Kurt and Rogue?” she sneered, daring Kitty to fire back.

“Amanda told me-”

“Oh, Amanda Sefton, my son’s childhood, spell casting heart throb told you. Someone tape this because what she speaks is gospel!”

Unaccustomed to loudness, Illyana sniffled and prepared to cry again. Ever observant, Mystique picked up on the impending waterworks and lowered her voice.

The scathing tone remained. “Amanda Sefton knows nothing about villagers chasing us seconds after Kurt was born. She knows nothing about their threats to burn us alive. I was exhausted and it was a miracle I didn’t get gutted where I lay.”

Outrage from a wound untreated glowed like white hot coals. She clenched her fists and let her sharp nails break skin. “Tell me,” she continued, the passion deliberately removed from herself, “What is a mother to do? Nowhere to run, no place to hide, everyone surrounding her wanting to kill her and her child. Do you have any conception what those small minded, backwater villagers would’ve done to Kurt? They’d make him suffer and laugh as he cried for me. They’d probably kill him before my eyes seconds before they’d burn me to cinders with their pathetic little torches.”

She pinned her eyes on Kitty. “I spared him. I thought he’d die in the river, but at least he wouldn’t suffer. He didn’t die, and the small part of me that didn’t want to give him up is very happy. However, do I expect his forgiveness? No. I’m fine with his rejection; after all, I did try to end his life moments after it began. I’m fine with him scorning my existence and us never forming a relationship. What I’m not fine with is other clueless people pegging me as a heartless child killer because they weren’t in my position and can’t even begin to fathom the desperateness of the time.

“So Kitty cat, did your Amanda Sefton tell you any of that? Do you want to hear about Rogue too or do you get the picture?”

Wisely, Kitty resorted to glaring at Mystique instead of answering. The blue skinned woman let the hostility roll off her back like water and leaned down to touch the squirming baby.

“A child is precious. You have to be willing to do anything and everything for them. If you can’t put their life above your own, you have no claim to them: that’s why I have no claim to Kurt. I gave birth to him, but I am not his mother. The honor belongs to someone else. This six pounds of joy you’re holding will grow to see you as her mother. Decide whether you want that title or not, because if you don’t make a choice soon, this’ll sour for everyone involved.”

“But how can I take care of a child? Being a high profile mutant doesn’t guarantee safety for her.”

“When you make it onto S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.T.R.I.K.E.’s most wanted lists, give me a call. Otherwise, you have it easy.”

*****************

“20/20” Special Interview: The Survivor...

“Did Emma Frost admit to being a mutant?”

Ben Carter--husband, son, paramedic--wiped the tears from his eyes. Talking about his ordeal was taxing, but when “20/20” contacted him about telling his story, he couldn’t refuse. Fifteen minutes of fame and a helping of cash got most people to do anything.

Paramedic Carter jumped at the fame. “Emma Frost said she was a mutant.”

The interviewer, John Stossel, pressed for details. “Did she exhibit any of her mutant abilities?”

“She turned clear,” said Ben, “Told us she was diamond or something.”

“Is she affiliated with the X-Men?”

“I dunno. She had a bunch of these superhero-types help us but I don’t think any of them were X-Men.”

“Why was she helping people then? When almost the entire population of Manhattan mutants were rioting, why was she interested in saving a handful of strangers she didn’t know?”

“Said she didn’t want to be like the others. Said she was better than them and better than us, so she’d be the better person to prove a point.”

“Sounds extreme if she just wanted to make you look bad. What did everyone else think?”

*****************

“Emma Frost? Elisabeth, you must be jesting.”

With the sun climbing over the horizon, Betsy ignored Ororo’s comment and enjoyed the dawning of a new day. Sunrise--it was a pleasure Belasco deprived her of, and like all good things, she didn’t appreciate it till it was gone. The fresh, almost minty air pleasantly numbed her exposed skin. Ororo nursed a mug of strong black tea which curled its wispy arms of steam above the liquid.

They sat on the frozen tile roof of the student dormitory. Below, the ruins of the Institute stared back at them like defiant revolutionaries. Despite Manhattan becoming a ball of rubble, Emma had enough clot to pull a small fleet of Caterpillar-armed construction workers in to repair the mansion.

It helped that she was one of the few well-connected, wealthy individuals not crippled by the recent attack. Certainly people couldn’t say no to someone who’d lost and given so much already... which was why Betsy and Ororo were on the roof having this conversation to being with.

Emma wanted to rebuild the school as soon as possible. Taking the blonde’s history into consideration, most of the X-Men wouldn’t like receiving something from the White Queen. Betsy wanted to know how much the others didn’t like the idea.

“I’m not joking,” said Betsy. “Emma is going to try and open up the school in a few months.”

A certain weather witch assumed a dubious expression as she sipped her tea. “What is her generosity going to cost us?”

In the not-so-recent past, Betsy would’ve shared Ororo’s caution. Here was the White Queen, noted bad seed, notoriously selfish, and masterfully subversive: she couldn’t be up to any good. A woman like that had no kind bone in her body and couldn’t be reformed no matter the circumstance.

But Betsy saw Emma, the teacher, the mentor, the survivor. Did she have her selfish reasons for reopening the school under her own support? Of course she did. She wanted to show the world how a real mutant academy should be run and perchance even upstage Charles. Yet, buried in the back of the competitive spirit was a genuine concern of those left without home or hope. So many lives lost, especially mutant lives--someone had to look after the children no one wanted and everyone feared. This school would be a lot of children’s last resort before a short, hollow existence of crime, violence, addiction, persecution, and tragedy ended them.

Years ago, a young Emma Frost could’ve met their same fate, but inhuman determination pulled her through. Now, she wanted better for the next generation. While her cool exterior didn’t show it, her heart glowed with unsung pride every time another student came to her doorstep.

Glancing at Ororo, Betsy shrugged and rubbed her frozen hands along the frozen tile. “It’s going to cost us trust. Believe it or not, she doesn’t want to see the school shut down. She’s able to repair the physical damage but she needs us to bring it back to life.”

“Trust? Hard to believe that the White Queen is willing part with millions of dollars for just trust.” Her blue eyes flickered at Betsy as she took stock of the conversation. Slightly trembling, the leader of the Xtreme X-Men rolled onto her side to better observe the other woman. “What has she done to you?”

No doubt “she” meant Emma. No doubt “what she did to you” implied mental violation. “Ororo, Emma did nothing to me.”

“Then why are you blindly following her advice? Warren can just as easily rebuild the school and we won’t have to count on outside assistance.”

Her frozen hands pressed down on the tile enough for one piece to shatter. She stopped just short of making a scene. “If Warren really loved this school, he would’ve offered to rebuild it himself. No, he’s caught up in his own problems and I doubt he has time for anything else.”

“Warren is not like that.”

“Yes he is,” interrupted Betsy who was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice, “You don’t know him like I do. He’s only made one commitment in his life, and that one was to his business. He puts everything else second... a distant second.”

“You can’t let your displeasure over your failed relationship with him cloud your judgment. Warren has always been there for us and I would trust him over Emma Frost.”

Betsy laughed mirthlessly. “You think I’m siding with Emma to spite Warren?”

“No, I think the White Queen is manipulating you to do so.”

Raking Warren’s reputation through the mud crossed Betsy’s mind. How many times had the man cancelled a date for something business related? On more than one occasion, she caught him thinking of her as a belonging, thinking how much having a sophisticated girlfriend elevated him in his peers’ eyes. What about the times he used “I love you” as the be-all and end-all to their arguments? Those three words were sacred and not be used as a shield; Warren didn’t get their sanctity.

Betsy could go on and on about the little things, about how he never called her unless she left a message on his voicemail, about how he never danced when she wanted to, about how she always danced when he wanted to. She could prattle forever, but she didn’t.

For an undeniable split second, she and Warren shared a comfort. She couldn’t bring herself to defile the lone bright spot in a dark chapter of her life. The displeasure she harbored for him mellowed into a wistful reminiscence of their good times. The bitterness left her.

Instead of attacking Warren further, Betsy went to defend Emma. “She did nothing to me, Ororo. She offered to help and asked me if I’d bring the idea to everyone. After seeing your reaction to her, I can see why she didn’t ask herself.”

“So you agree to be her messenger?”

“Why not? If we keep treating her like an outsider, whatever goodwill she has was bound to disappear.”

“I am not against showing her trust, but counting on her to rebuild our base--our home--is too much.”

“Ever since coming to the mansion, what has she done to earn your distrust?”

“It’s not what she’s done here, it’s what she’s done in the past.”

“People can change.”

“The White Queen can’t.”

“Look at Rogue! She came to us with nothing but the clothes on her back and a reputation almost worse than Emma’s. Despite that, you gave her a chance and now you’d trust your life in her hands.”

“Rogue is different.”

“How? How is trusting Mystique’s daughter more difficult than trusting Emma?”

“Because Emma Frost will betray us to the Hellfire Club the very first chance she gets!”

From behind the two, Jubilee, her head sticking out of a window, cleared her throat. “Frosty’s not really down with those people anymore. Kinda had a falling out, ya know?”

“Jubilation, get back into the student dormitory. Elisabeth and I are discussing-”

“I heard what you were ‘discussin’ about, ‘Ro. Just vouchin’ for Frosty, that’s all. I mean, she ain’t all bad, at least, not as bad as you seem to think she is.”

“Thank you, Jubilation, that’ll be enough.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask Betts something too.”

Ororo looked flabbergasted; Betsy tilted her head and waited for Jubilee.

“So yeah, Betts, where’s Wolvie?”

So she needed a telepath for a mental scan. Betsy focused and extended herself, spreading out into the world and tuning in to the distinct mind that was Logan. Traces of him floated in the mansion, his strong but strayed thoughts limping around like zombies. She followed the trail down into the garage, onto the Harley that wasn’t there anymore, and then toward the Long Island Expressway.

Angst.

Sadness.

Guilt.

Chaos.

“He’s gone.”

“Well, can’t you tell me where he is?”

“He probably wants to be alone, Jubilee.”

The girl had been part of the X-Men long enough to know what that meant. Logan didn’t want to be found, and in his own time, he’d show up again. Unable to conceal the disappointment, she moved back into the warm building and left the older women.

Betsy picked up where she left off. “Even Jubilee trusts Emma.”

“She is a child.”

“But she’s a child whom you trust to be an adult when need be. She’s young but not naïve. If Emma was really as bad as you envision her to be, she would’ve never gained Jubilee’s vote of confidence. For that matter, she would’ve never gained the Professor’s, Sean’s, or the rest of Generation X’s confidence either.”

“How did she gain yours, Elisabeth?”

Back to the veiled accusation of Emma using her psychic powers in nefarious ways. “She saved my life and asked for nothing in return.”

“Don’t you see that this is what she wants as her repayment? What better way to strike at the X-Men than to take the Institute?”

“It’s not like that, Ororo.”

“How do you know?”

“She just isn’t like that.”

“If you’ve forgotten, this is the same woman who stole my body and kidnapped Kitty.”

“She’s not like that anymore.”

The short, unreasonable answers galvanized Ororo’s suspicions. “She’s tampered with your mind already. You can’t even tell me why or how she’s changed.”

“Life changed her,” Betsy sighed, Emma’s memories of Everett, the Hellions, and Genosha stinging her like they were her own. “I guess you can say she got humbled.”

“The White Queen? Humbled? She doesn’t act that way.”

“Even the White Queen feels love and pain like the rest of us.”

“What makes you sure, Elisabeth? Is it her psychic powers?”

“Stop!” shouted Betsy, angered and offended, “Emma did nothing to me!”

“You always said she was a stronger telepath than you...”

This ended now. Betsy bolted up to her feet and measured her next words carefully. “We are bonded together, Ororo. You don’t need to know how it happened, you just need to know it did. I can see inside of her and crippling the X-Men is the furthest thing from her mind. I trust Emma. Now, do you trust my judgment?”

The logical question, at least in Ororo’s mind, was, “Why do you trust her?”

And the real answer threatened to come tumbling out. Saying “I love her” would encapsulate the argument well, but it wouldn’t do anything to change Ororo’s view. Actually, it’d probably serve to strengthen her negativity toward Emma.

There was a time and place for “I love her” and this wasn’t one of them.

“I just do,” answered Betsy. “We’ve been through enough to break down our weariness. Question is, are you willing to give her a chance?”

In a huff, Ororo glided back inside. Though she refused to show it, the testimony of two friends, comrades, and confidants rooted in the back of her mind and wouldn’t go away. A single rebellious thought nipped at her until even her tea tasted bland.

What if Emma Frost was trustworthy?

*****************

LA Radio Station, KCAL 96.7...

“It’s 7:53 AM and if you thought you had it bad on the freeways this morning, listen to this: all roads leading into Manhattan are closed until tomorrow. That’s right. C-L-O-S-E-D.”

“Must make for one hell of a traffic jam.”

“It would-”

“Oh God, Jimbo, don’t say it.”

“-if half the people in Manhattan weren’t DEAD!”

“S*beep*t, there’s goes our sponsors. I can just hear the soccer moms speed dialing the censors right now.”

“Don’t sweat the technique, Stu. Tiff, whatcha got for us?”

“Besides our pink slips? Well, there’s this CNN camerawoman-”

“Is she hot?”

“I don’t know, Stu.”

“Is she hot?”

“Fine, yes, she’s hot, Jimbo. There, you two happy?”

“All right! Pink slips and hot ladies!”

“Anyway, this woman works for CNN and managed to film a lot of the carnage. CNN’s supposedly releasing an edited version some time today.”

“Whoa, when’s the unrated version coming out?”

“I’m working with tweedledumb and tweedledumber.”

*****************

“Remy,” she giggled, “Ah can carry it.”

“Nonsense, chere. I be a southern gentleman, and I be damned if I let a southern belle do de heavy liftin’.”

“But it’s so big!”

“Dey say size don’t matter.” The Cajun grunted with effort before gasping for breath. “Remy t’ink dem people got small-”

“Remy!”

“What? It’s true, don’t lie to me like dat.”

“I ain’t sayin’ yer lyin’ but yer goin’ overboard.”

Another grunt. “Chere, you don’t even gotta do nothin’. Remy just want you to look pretty, dat’s all.”

Shuffling, scratching, thumping, then, “Look out, Remy!”

An “Oh shi-” cut off just as Remy--with unwieldy king sized mattress in grasp--crashed through the room that served as his and Rogue’s temporary residence. The brunette, who tried to help, ended up off-balance and falling into the Cajun. Luckily, the mattress cushioned their spill, and after bouncing twice like a ball, settled down awkwardly on a bunch of furniture and packed luggage. Incidentally, because of the general rolling around, Remy ended up on his back with his face buried in Rogue’s cleavage.

It was a comfortable place to be. Rogue concurred, a seductive grin spreading as she felt Remy’s crotch start to poke against her-

“You young kids certainly don’t waste any time.”

Sexual mischievousness degenerated into mortification. Seated on the desk: Mystique, legs crossed and eternal smile present. Rogue jumped, her face red like lava. Remy leaned his head back to the upside down image of every man’s worst nightmare: the girlfriend’s mother catching them in a romantic moment.

“Mama! Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Can’t I kiss my daughter goodbye?”

“Goodbye? But you just... we just... Ah mean...”

“What am I going to do? Stay at the Xavier Institute? That’s going to do wonders for my safety and self-esteem.”

“Didn’t Irene’s diary say somethin’ ‘bout-”

“Just leave the diaries alone,” Mystique said tiredly, the playfulness deserting her, “It’s... complicated.”

“Since when ain’t it, Mama? Can’t ya just stay a little while?”

The woman took her daughter’s gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “Such a sweet girl I helped raise. You’re forgiving, just like Irene was.”

“And Roguey’s good lookin’, just like her mama.”

Both looked at a smirking, doubly amused Cajun. Mystique rolled her eyes at him. “Trying to score points with me?”

“Hey, Remy t’ink makin’ your girl’s momma happy is a good t’ing.”

Mystique didn’t like the Cajun’s suggestive look, but what was she going to do? Say she’ll shoot him if he touched her daughter? Rogue already had a thing about not being touched so any threat was moot.

Time to ignore the one named Gambit.

Her eyes went back to her Rogue. “I’ll call.”

“Ah got so many questions. Ya can’t leave without talkin’ ta me. You owe me that much. Please, Mama?”

Between opening her mouth and talking, a new person joined the conversation: Emma. As stealthily as Betsy, she snuck over to the trio, leaned against the door frame, and declared, “What’s the hurry, Mystique? Stay awhile. As Rogue said, we have much to discuss.”

Great. “Seems like I have a following all of a sudden. What happened to X-Men wanting to see me dead?”

Rogue tried to say something but Emma beat her to the first word. “Allies, especially in this uncertain time, are hard to come by. What better way to brave the dark days ahead than to show unity among us mutants. Think of this invitation to stay as gratitude for all you’ve done to help us out. Besides, your dear daughter appreciates your presence as much as I do.”

Subtle menace hid in Emma. Her too composed body and intense stare alarmed Mystique. The words, the emphasis on “allies,” “unity among us mutants,” “dear daughter,” and “all you’ve done to help us,” sounded threatening despite the thick layers of sugary sweetness and feigned innocence. Seemed like the White Queen wanted revenge for being brought to the Dark Beast and she’d stoop to using Rogue to get that revenge.

Mystique let go of her daughter’s hand. The newest gossip told of a defanged Emma Frost, one who spent more time chasing adolescents and teaching the dangers of underage drinking than playing the power games she was famed for. Gossip was gossip--a lot of times, it was wrong. This Emma Frost here had a lioness’ swagger and a shark’s drive for blood. In one swoop, she’d warned and trapped Mystique while gliding undetected through Rogue and Gambit’s collective notice.

Funny thing was, Mystique didn’t refuse the offer. The threat to her daughter, however remote, had to be respected. X-Men didn’t go after their own, but she trusted the White Queen as far as she could throw a ton of diamond. If the threat was empty, the only to find out and take revenge would be to stay. Threat, challenge, and jab camouflaged themselves into her terse speech. Frost packaged all that in the palatable guise of “we mutants have to stick together” and lobbed it over everyone, straight into Mystique’s arms.

What a bitch.

“I’ll stay,” smiled Mystique without skipping a beat, “but I’m staying under your invitation.”

Emma’s invite meant Emma’s problem. Though Mystique herself wasn’t friendly with the X-Men, she knew there was no way the White Queen could be any better with her supposed new teammates. Hardliners like Bishop and Storm were probably waiting for an excuse to chuck her off the team. Being responsible for Mystique’s calculated, disruptive behavior went a long way to achieving that result.

Ha! Frost didn’t have a monopoly on the game of subterfuge.

Apparently, she liked the parameters set forth. “I’ll tell the others,” she nodded, “Come on now, get to know your future son-in-law.”

One sentence, three meanings. Rogue blushed, unreasonably happy to be able to talk about something normal with her mama. Remy panicked as he wondered if he’d actually have to spend time with this sharp-tongued, super sneaky, shape shifting woman (As if a girlfriend’s mom wasn’t bad enough, now this girlfriend’s mom could turn into anyone at any time. Talk about keeping him on his toes, sheesh.). Mystique stewed with anger at the slight which implied she had no part or knowledge of her daughter’s life.

If Emma wasn’t solid diamond, Mystique would’ve dropped the uppity woman like a bad habit.

*****************

Fox News Channel....

“I implore you to send whatever you can spare. The Red Cross and Salvation Army are working around the clock to field every donation. We need all the help we can get if we are to save as many as we can. The number is on the bottom of your screen, and know that every penny will go to the rescue efforts the authorities are conducting.. Please, your help can possibly salvage someone’s Christmas...”

*****************

Paige yawned and put her head down on the desk. Sam, who insisted he was fine, sent her away from his bedside by beginning to tell an embarrassing baby story really loudly. That wouldn’t have fazed Paige any if the Stepford Cuckoos weren’t fawning over him like he was a teenaged crush and went googly eyed when he blurted, “There was this one time when Paige we-”

She shoved a piece of dirty laundry in his mouth and made a beeline for the door. This was what she got for being nice to her big brother.

“Phooie,” she muttered.

If Warren was around, she’d feel so much better. Whenever and wherever, the man chased away her discomforts and showered her with his affections. Seemed like he worshipped her as much as she worshipped him, their mutual admiration and love always begging to be shown like a gleaming award. A dreaded tinge of insignificance plagued her when he wasn’t with her. She felt incomplete without him because he’d become an integral part of her life. More and more she thought of herself less Paige Guthrie and more Warren Worthington’s girlfriend.

Which she had no problems with because Warren thought of himself as Paige Guthrie’s boyfriend. They were in love like that and love made everything worthwhile, even staying in a much too cramped dorm room while a dangerous storm of humanity brewed in the distance, even waiting and worrying about his safety after he left to take care of some things at Worthington Industries.

And outside on the roof...

“Warren.”

“Betsy.”

Ororo wasn’t there anymore, the cold and disgust moving her back inside. Betsy relished in the bone freezing weather as her new body did nothing to keep her warm but everything to keep her alive. In this brief moment, the struggle for life and death seemed far away, the invincible illusion making her young again.

Young again... before Xavier... before the X-Men... before the drama... before Warren...

But Warren was here now, and his presence made her feel old, like she was suppose to act a certain way because she was stuck in her old routines. Another reason Betsy broke up with him: he had so many expectations of her. He wanted her to be his wife, to settle down after marriage and help him raise a child or four, to be on his arm whenever a millionaire threw a fancy gala, to laugh with him at the country club while indulging in mimosas and sangrias.

Betsy couldn’t do that. Well, she could, but she didn’t want to. Too much of her craved the danger and excitement. She couldn’t be Mrs. Warren Worthington because she would always be Ms. Elisabeth Braddock. Warren wanted a wife; Betsy couldn’t be one.

A wife--just looking at his longing eyes aged her a fistful of decades.

“Kind of cold to be flying, Warren.”

His massive wings folded out of the way, enough for him to sit next to her. “It’s the only way to get into Manhattan. The roads are blocked off.”

She leaned back onto the sheen of ice and tile, a move he didn’t emulate. She rubbed her nose and yawned. “Why are you here?”

“I love you, Betsy.”

“We’ve been over this. We’re done and we’ve moved on.”

“Do you love me?”

“No,” she replied, unhesitant.

“Did you love me?”

As quickly as the previous answer, “Yes.”

“So what changed?”

“Us.”

“I never-”

“That’s right. You, the model of stability, never changed. Me? I changed and we drifted apart. I couldn’t understand you needed a wife and you couldn’t understand I needed an outlet. At one point, I loved you with all my heart, but no matter how much people want it to be true, love isn’t forever. Love is work, understanding, compromise, and commitment. Love is supposed to be nurtured or it dies. Our love languished because we stopped working for it.”

“I worked for our love,” Warren said incredulously, his eyes smoldering in disbelief, “I risked everything to save you with the Crimson Dawn! I saved you from Shinobi Shaw! I-”

“That’s my point, Warren. Love isn’t like a business transaction with profits and loses. You help the one you love because you love them, not because they’ll be indebted to you and feel obligated to have sex with you.”

Personal honor in danger, Warren let his unwavering cutthroat persona take charge. “What do you know about love? Where do you come off high and mighty when you’re the one who used Neal to cheat on me?”

“Never said I was right. If you want me to say it, I’ll say it: I was wrong for toying with both you and Neal like that. I have no defense for my hideous actions and it’s something I regret ever doing. I’m sorry.”

The blunt admission stemmed his irritation.

“Go back to Paige,” said Betsy. “She’s a good girl who can give you what you need. Us? We would’ve never worked.”

“There’s always going to be a part of me that loves you, Betts.”

“It’s because you can’t have me. Things always look better when you can’t have them.”

“I think we could’ve-”

“It’s over, Warren. Both of us have somebody else. I don’t know if you love Paige, but I know I’m in love.”

“Who is he?”

“That’s none of your god damn business.”

*****************

S.H.I.E.L.D. Press Conference at the Pentagon...

Nick Fury, perhaps the most famous and definitely the most visible S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, cleared his throat and drank from the glass of water. He once-overed the gathered audience and began.

“Despite the latest technology and our best efforts, an unknown terrorist managed to breach our innermost systems and deploy fighters without our knowledge and against our will. S.H.I.E.L.D. accepts full responsibility for this tragedy and is working around the clock to do two things: aid rescue workers and prevent this from ever happening again. The people of the United States of America have my sincerest apologies. To those who lost loved ones, you have my full assurance that we will find whoever did this and bring them to justice.”

He raised his head, watched the itching reporters, and prepared for the inevitable. “Questions?”

Over the commotion, one intrepid person rose above his peers. “What is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s stance on mutants?”

“The same as it always has been: judge on a case to case basis.”

Another reporter climbed to the top of the heap. “Is the President calling for your resignation?”

“If he is, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“How does S.H.I.E.L.D. intend to protect the nation if it caused so much damage?”

“No one’s perfect,” Fury growled, slamming his fist against the podium. “I can only say we’re working as hard as we can to plug up the holes.”

“Any idea who this terrorist is and what faction he or she belongs to?”

“We have some leads we’re investigating.”

“Is this a foreign or domestic threat?”

“Most likely domestic.”

“What does S.H.I.E.L.D. intend to do with the X-Men who reportedly were the ones to repel the attack?”

“Shake their hands.”

“A number of survivors recounted a fire sweeping over Manhattan. Was this a government secret weapon or something else entirely?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Is billionaire Emma Frost a suspect in your investigations?”

“No comment.”

“Will S.H.I.E.L.D. be dissolved in light of this debacle?”

“Only if you people don’t like breathing.” With the veins in his neck protruding and his teeth bared, he barked, “This conference is over.”

*****************

Alex Summers brought his hand onto Lorna Dane’s forehead. Lying on one of the few intact beds in the medlab, she looked like the perfect woman: quiet, serene, undemanding, beautiful. This was his fiancé, if only she’d ever be stable enough to wake up. If only he even wanted her.

The prognosis? Acute kidney failure from a drug overdose. The same drugs inhibited parts of her nervous system. Foreign mutagens clashed with her unique physiology and facilitated a latent secondary mutation. Emma Frost’s psychic attack left her comatose. Areas of her brain showed intense activity, pulling various glands into overdrive and producing a stressed and angry sensation.

Hank’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Don’t get down on yourself, ol’ buddy. She’ll be ok once I find a way to neutralize the drugs.”

“Great,” said Alex as he walked to the stairs, “I’m not holding my breath.”

“Whoa there, cowboy. In the words of Logan, ‘This ain’t flamin’ hopeless yet.’”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“How can you not care? This is Ms. Lorna Dane, you know, your sweetheart? The girl you went on and on about at Scott’s wedding? The same one Bobby asked if she could walk on water and you said yes?”

“There’s been a new development.”

“Well, I’ll say.” The blue furred man put down the test tubes and removed his goggles. “A few months ago, Ms. Pryde came to me talking about a nuptial, and now you don’t care if the better half lives or dies? That’s not the Alex Summers I remember.”

“I’m not the Alex Summers you remember. You don’t know what happened; you can’t fathom what I had to leave behind.”

“Kitty told me about your rumored demise and your subsequent return from another dimension. Seems like you have a plethora of troubles on your proverbial plate.”

Alex turned his back on Hank. “All my life I’ve lived in someone’s shadow. I never was myself until I went into that other dimension. There, I was the leader. I was an incomparable hero. I loved someone there and she loved me back regardless of who I was. Then I came back to this world, and guess what? I’m back to being Scott’s little brother and the Professor’s pawn.”

“What about Lorna?”

“Lorna’s not the woman I love. She can have my body but she’ll never have my heart.”

“Why accept her marriage proposal then?”

He stopped at the question. “Hank, when she asked me, I was just pulled from a dimensional nowhere. My body had been catatonic for months so talking wasn’t high on my to-do list. She took my silence as a yes and things snowballed from there.”

“It’s irresponsible to not stop-”

“I don’t care about responsibility. I just want to leave this life.”

*****************

Albany International Airport, Alaskan Airlines terminal--Scott showed his driver’s license to the woman behind the counter.

“Going to Anchorage today, Mr. Summers?”

“Yes.”

After the computer printed out the ticket, she slid the piece of paper into a ticket sleeve and smiled the obligatory smile. “Your gate number is A12. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Summers.”

Anchorage, Alaska was the only other place he ever considered home. His was born there; his grandparents lived there; he and Madelyne moved there after their ill-fated marriage. The city held some of his happiest moments and played host to him whenever he needed to get away from his pressure laden life. He needed to see the endless snow and feel the warmth of family.

He needed something to keep the ghost of Apocalypse at bay.

He needed to keep Jean away.

Through the metal detector he went, nothing but a medium sized piece of carry-on luggage to accompany him. Didn’t need much since he never sold the house he shared with Maddie up there.

Maddie... Jean...

A bubble of depression almost burst. Two dead wives? That wasn’t suppose to happen to anyone. He’d invested so much of himself in them, and in the end, something else took them away. The gardens of heaven he tended, especially with Jean, weren’t enough to sustain him through the fields of hell the X-Men life plopped him into.

His body wore down. His soul refused to go on. Emma might’ve thought losing Jean again was easier but it only hurt more each time he said goodbye. He tried to act brave and tough out the loss, but without Jean, without her omnipresent support, he had no will to live.

Following the Professor’s dream got him here. Somewhere in the back of mind, this nagging, doubting, bitter voice blamed Charles for Jean’s death. The rest of Scott fought against this voice, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t silence it.

A small amount of truth lay in the claim.

He dropped his bag next to chair at Gate A12. The flight wasn’t for another three hours, but with the three Manhattan airports nearly closed, Albany International handled an influx of passengers. Already delays were popping up everywhere and it was only a matter of time before the Anchorage flight got pushed back.

Passengers scrambled, suitcases dropping left and right. Security personnel stretched to their limits, each given so many orders from so many people that they were all confused. Airport workers zoomed about while people screamed complaints a

Back to chapter list