X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ Diamonds, Dames, and Deception ❯ The Fall ( Chapter 2 )

Chapter 2: The Fall


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

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 to admit 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 battle 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.

“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, not since that fateful night in the medlab.

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 takin’ 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 ‘bout 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. Only when they finished did Betsy gain control of her hitherto unknown appendages and force them back into whatever nether regions they spawned from.

Lucky 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.”

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

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!*

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

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

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 ain’t pretty. You start singin’ 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.”

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

“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,” scoffed 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 Rogue’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.”

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

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 bottles guarded Rachel. One wrong step and that stray magazine could tip over that glass which would shatter and 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 better 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.

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

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? Were 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.

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

“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 lips.

“’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. Unfortunately, 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.”

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

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 Enterprises 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.”

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

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.”

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

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 the 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 blackouts 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 wounds 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 become depressed 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.”

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

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 both 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 her 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 cascaded 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?”

& #8220;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--sigh 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.

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.

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

“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 even 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 saw 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.

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

“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 soldiering 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 as she preferred), 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.

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

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 her 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 sunk 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 the 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 the volume to its former state.

“This just in: New York City is under attack by renowned mutant radical, Magneto...”

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


- To be continued...