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.”
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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- To be continued...
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