X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ Diamonds, Dames, and Deception ❯ The Battle ( Chapter 3 )

Chapter 3: The Battle


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

Firefighters pulled them out of the bone chilling, pneumonia inducing water and draped them in heavy overcoats. A small crowd gathered there, and amongst them, reporters snapped photos. At first, most thought they were terrorists, but one look at two women played on their prejudice: the duo had to be victims. Women couldn’t be terrorists, especially blonde women. The people went from hostile to concerned, craning their necks to check out these plane crash survivors.

A few overzealous cameramen ducked under the police lines to grab that exclusive shot for tomorrow’s front page. The authorities tried their best to bar these mavericks, but the bulbs still flashed and the masses kept coming. One of the men caught a glance a Emma’s distinctive features and his pulse quickened.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “that’s Emma Frost! That’s the mutant they’re all talkin’ about!”

Of course, the mention of mutant sent everyone into a hysteria. The reporters pressed against the firefighters and police; the crowds whispered in delight. Who knew the night would become so interesting? Muddled shouts drowned out the threats of arrest.

The questions came fast.

“Ms. Frost! Over here!”

“What were you doing in that plane?!”

“We need a statement!”

“How do you respond to Isa Hayes’ accusations?”

“Are you a dirty mutie?!”

Betsy squeezed Emma’s hand as they slowly made their way to the ambulance.

*Don’t let them get to you, Emma.*

*Oh, mark my words, I’ll ruin every one of these pieces of trash if it’s the last thing I do.*

The snide comment eased Betsy’s mind. After seeing Emma so raw and exposed earlier, Betsy wondered how she’d do against adversity and if that indefatigable spirit had been crushed through her ordeal. Glad to know Emma could still channel her inner strength--and inner bitch--when necessary.

*That’s it, honey,* encouraged Betsy, *think evil thoughts.*

*Now we’re giving each other endearing names?*

*Well, you don’t look like a pumpkin. How about I follow Rogue’s lead? Does sugah sound pleasing enough?*

The venomous glare Emma directed at the reporters landed briefly on her fellow X-Woman. *Watch yourself, Betsy. I’m not above petty revenge.*

*What kind of revenge, sweetie pie?*

They stopped and stared at each other for a split second. Emma broke into a maniacal grin. *I christen thee ‘bub.’*

Betsy held her hands up in defeat. *That hurts both of us: you for saying it, me for taking it.*

*A small price to pay, bub.*

Their banter tuned out the crowds and reporters, and by the time Emma resumed glaring at the vultures, they’d been escorted closer to the ambulance. A harried and overwhelmed whelp of a paramedic tried to assess their conditions, take their temperatures, and see what kind of treatment they required.

What he saw astounded him.

The human body operated at an optimal core temperature of 98.6 degrees. Moderate hypothermia set in when the core temperature hit 95 degrees, resulting in shivering, mild confusion, sluggish movements, and speech impediments. In the dead of winter, such a state wasn’t difficult to attain, especially when wet. Doctors defined severe hypothermia as under 90 degrees, and the best way to dip one’s core temperature so dangerously low was to take a long swim in a freezing environment.

Dead of winter. New York. Ice chunks floated in the bay. It qualified.

These two women, who should’ve been suffering from pulmonary edema, respiratory failure, muscle rigidity, and heart fibrillation, showed remarkable qualities.

The blonde--now adequately identified as Emma Frost--retained a 97 degree body temperature, but yet, when the firefighters pulled her up, she was soaking wet. Only someone who’d taken a quick dip in icy waters then been properly insulted afterward could maintain such a state. Witnesses clearly saw the plane go down about a hundred yards from shore: even for the fastest of swimmers, a hundred yards did not equate to a quick dip.

And the other woman? The tall, Asian beauty? She should’ve been dead. Her skin radiated no body heat. She had neither pulse nor blood pressure. She didn’t breathe and didn’t shiver. Instead of looking like someone who’d just escaped death, she looked mildly annoyed.

The paramedic gulped, fear claiming his rationale. Those questions and accusations of “mutant” sounded louder by the second, and self-preservation dominated his thoughts. Yes, paramedics were suppose to help anyone in need, but this... this was asking a little too much. He’d only been on the job for three weeks and he had a family to think about. Treating mutants? What would his friends say? Would these women bite his head off?

One of the firefighters knocked his shoulder. “Yo,” the burly man grimaced, “Don’t you have a job to do?”

“But... but...”

“But nothin’,” said the firefighter, “You’re not going to stand there and watch these girls freeze, are ya?”

“They’re mutants!”

“And we’re right here,” Emma said icily, taking notice of the paramedic’s name on his badge. “Mr. Carter, I’m wet, I’m cold, and I’m besieged by reporters. Unless it’s suddenly become standard protocol to stare at plane crash victims, wipe that dumbstruck look off your face and get us out of here.”

But they’re mutants! Filthy mutants who’d use their freaky powers to take over the world! Was he really suppose to help things like that? Nowhere in his contract did it mention anything about treating those of the nonhuman species.

In another second, Emma would’ve did something drastic to his brain. In another second, Betsy would’ve been too late in restraining Emma’s actions. In another second, the young paramedic’s life would’ve changed forever, and not necessarily for the better.

Another second passed, but something else ensued. The ground shook and people gasped. In the distance by the park bathrooms, a red bolt of lightning bundled itself into a globe of electricity. Shadows appeared inside the hovering mass. They distorted then pushed through, oozing onto the grass like gallons of syrup, but no one saw where the shadows ended up. Desperate squeals, most human some not, wailed from behind the trees.

A primal urged stirred inside of Betsy. The hunger from earlier came back; she felt her shadowy tendrils fight against her restraint. All around her stood slabs of meat, of food, so easy, so tempting, so innocent. She hugged the fireman’s overcoat closer to her body, as if huddling up would stave away the demonic need. Everywhere, meat, food. She tried to focus on something else, the ambulance, the ground beneath her feet, anything, but her keen instincts refused to be fooled. Victims. Meals. Victims everywhere.

Victims, all of them, until she looked into a pair of blue eyes.

Unnatural pulses of anger and submission flared through their bond, warping Betsy, and by extension, warping Emma. And Emma didn’t take kindly to psychic invaders. *It’s Belasco, isn’t it?*

Betsy nodded, her motions strained, her thoughts warring against each other--instinct versus instinct, power versus power, self versus self. *I can feel him behind the portal... he... he’s calling to me...*

*He’s telling you to unleash that demon inside of you, telling you to come back to him, telling you to hate and kill and maim.*

*Yes,* she trilled, her claws unconsciously extending and facial features distorting.

*Betsy.* No response.

More forcefully this time. *Betsy.*

Brown eyes opened, disfigured by ecstasy.

*Betsy, look at me.*

The bloodlust stayed, but at least she didn’t look away.

*Am I a victim to you?*

Seconds passed and the screams grew louder. So loud, so musical, so diabolical... they stirred umbral needs, and in turn, the needs called her to join in the battle and please her master. No, please Master, not master. Master saved her, gave her this body, made her whole again when her family left her behind.

*Do you see me as meat?* Emma pressed.

Emma... no... Emma wasn’t a victim... she wasn’t meat... she was Emma. Emma was precious; Emma didn’t force her to do things she didn’t like, not like her master. Beyond the urges to bloodshed, beyond the lure of master, and beyond the hunger stood Emma radiating neither hope nor promises. What they were to each other hadn’t been established yet, but what they felt couldn’t be denied: love. It was a freeing love, one holding no untruths or schoolgirl wishes, just a statement of now, a young love.

What young love lacked in direction, it made up for in strength.

*N... no.*

The blonde leaned closer to her companion. *Answer me.*

*No.*

They clasped hands, Betsy’s aforementioned claws gone. *What did you say?*

*No, you’re not meat.*

*Say it like you mean it, like had to choose between Belasco and me.*

*No. You’re not a victim or meat. You’re my Emma.*

*You have to choose. What am I to you?*

Blue eyes, luscious lips, kind face--Emma had faith in her. Couldn’t let Emma down. Betsy’s muscles relaxed and her bloodlust calmed. Belasco’s hold over her still remained, but another’s hold was stronger. Emma. *You’re my Emma.*

The blonde nodded in approval. *Good, and you’re my Elisabeth. Don’t forget that.*

No sooner had they fended off Betsy’s demon did more malicious ones come barging into view. When the portal flashed to existence, it shocked the crowd and froze the people in place, no amount of yelling and grotesque sounds budging them. However, when the first of the shades approached, the horror became real for them.

Tourists ran for their lives.

The firefighters ushered people away.

Policemen--all fifteen of them--drew guns and fired.

Reporters snapped photos.

Shouts of “Dirty muties!” emanated from the more courageous people, who, upon seeing the monstrosities close up, shut their mouths and ran. The fast wave of fast moving shades succumb to the police’s hail of bullets. Too bad a second wave stomped through the trees and bowled into the police who were reloading their weapons. Bony protrusions exposed organs while sharp pincers lunged at the soft meat. Brawny arms batted away attacks and acidic spit from a particularly nasty shade turned bone into a grainy, soupy broth. The authorities fought valiantly to save the fleeing citizens, but the numbers and stronger individuals rendered resistance futile.

Shades feasted on those brave, fallen frontline fighters and dangled human pieces from their maws like wolves. More shades came, but seeing claimed food and quickly retreating meals, they turned away for easier pickings elsewhere.

Ten dead. Five policemen, two firefighters, and three reporters. Looked like a hundred people were slaughtered here given the rivulets of blood and chunks of limbs scattered about. Five shades enjoyed their victory and fed, oblivious to the world...

Until a clawed hand punched through one of their stomachs. Googly eyes turned to the unexpected disturbance. The skewered shade glanced at his erstwhile midsection, then up at his fellow shades, shuddered at the pain, and finally fell over, disentangling his insides from his killer.

A seven foot, five armed titan let out a roar and stampeded at a smiling Betsy. The woman didn’t even look impressed at the massive bunch of muscles, instead bringing her blood covered hands to her sides and straightening her back. What appeared to an easy kill became a deadly trap when, from the side, a crystallized boot blasted into its square chin. The thing wobbled before tumbling face first to the ground just inches before Betsy.

A diamond Emma flicked a blade of grass off her shoe. “Do you think these things are smart enough to know fear?”

Betsy shrugged. “Probably not.”

And indeed they weren’t. The three left cast away their meals and growled at the two interlopers. One had long, sharp bones jutting out of every conceivable section of its body, something like a disgusting humanoid porcupine. One could only be described as a huge mouth with legs--it derived its menacing countenance from the jagged teeth littering its jaw. The third resembled an ugly, fat man, only across his considerable gut was a slit, a slit which would open and spew corrosives.

They pooled themselves together and stumbled at the pretty, shiny woman.

“I think they like me,” Emma noted.

Betsy went into her defensive stance and peered at the blonde. “What can I say? We demons have a thing for you.”

The tubby acid spitter crashed into Emma, his digestive juice harmlessly beading off her diamond body. Sporting an impious smirk, Emma pulled his orifice shut. The fat demon growled and beat his meaty arms against the blonde, but she didn’t let go. Angry blows turned desperate as his stomach quivered and smoked. His skin lost cohesion, melted by his own acid. A quick knock to the chest separated his upper torso from his lower extremities.

Meanwhile, Betsy tangoed with two shades. Emma opted for dramatics, but Betsy relied on quick, compact, and efficient combat. Nimble enemies these things were not, and one wide sweep brought both of them to their backs. Betsy impaled the mouthy monster to death by kicking it into his bony friend. Making a judgment call as to wear the bony one’s head was, she wrapped her hands around two protrusions and twisted until a snap signaled the end of the fight.

Emma sighed. “We have to get out of here.”

“The portal’s so near,” said Betsy, eyes closed and body geared up for an epic battle, “We can close it before it gets worse.”

“Look to the left.”

She expected more enemies; she got a host of wide-eyed, open-mouthed people. Yes, many fled, but many still remained, morbid curiosity rooting them in place. What were they thinking? Why didn’t they just yield to their fight-or-flight instincts?

Stupid rubberneckers.

“Well?” asked Betsy, “What are you waiting for? Death? Get out of here!”

The people started backing away but still wouldn’t run.

“Um, no, Betsy, your other left.”

A familiar face materialized, followed of course by the appropriate familiar body draped in familiar vestments. Pointy ears, distinctive facial hair, and glistening garbs served to enunciate his unholiness, the former ruler of Limbo, the greatest of demonic magi, the one and only Belasco. His countenance seemed to bolster his forces, for as he descended, beasts roared, cars crashed, and the ground rocked. Betsy stifled the temptation to run to the portal prostrate herself before him.

Behind him, a host of winged women pushed through. From a distance, they could’ve been mistaken for angels, but an unholy rage marred their faces, one which chilled the bone of even the most casual observers. Naked, beautiful, and ever so deadly, these sirens let out melodious cries and leapt into the night sky in search of glassy-eyed prey.

Emma grabbed Betsy’s arm and dragged away from the park. “I believe this is where we retreat and call your Otherworld friends.”

“Retreat?” groaned Betsy, “Retreat where? You think anywhere is safe in the city with hell about to come onto earth?”

The blonde pointed her finger at a nearby skyscraper, the home of Frost Enterprises. “Trust me when I say my tower is easier to defend than Battery Park.” Returning to her flesh and blood body, Emma used her telepathy to snatch the crowd’s attention. Once the dumbfounded focused on her, she cleared her throat and declared, “Everyone who doesn’t want to end up as a monster’s midnight snack can seek shelter two blocks away in my company’s building.”

Still few of them budged. Stupid, stupid curious people.

“GO!” A good punch of psychic suggestion laced the order, and only then did people get moving en mass.

A little voice in the back of her head complained about random peons soiling her immaculate office. Undeniable, but as heartless as Emma was, she couldn’t leave these people here to die. Something about a conscience and fighting for the greater good gnawed at her like a rabid pup. She blamed her blossoming humanitarianism squarely on Betsy and their bond.

Young love tended to blind people and induce goodwill.

“God, I’m going soft.”

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

Jubilee silently snuck through the roofless mansion. Hanging out by the gates waiting for stray students to come back was fine, but it was also damned cold. Not that a roofless mansion was much better mind you, but at least the walls kept the unforgiving wind out. While she liked the cold as much as the next New York girl, she also didn’t like becoming a popsicle a la Bobby “Snowman” Drake.

So she tip toed about, her ears straining for any disturbances. Hey, Wolvie taught her every trick in the book and armed with the knowledge, she felt at one in this eerie darkn-

“OUCH! Sonovabitch!”

Oops. Didn’t mean to swear. Didn’t mean to stumble over the coat rack either. Jubilee gave the offending furniture a sound trashing before moving on. Hey, no one saw anything, therefore, Magneto did it. Capture the X-Men, tear the roof off the mansion, and maul the coat rack--super villains could be so cruel.

Up the debris laden stairs she went. Whoops, almost tripped again on a piece of roofing. Man, Kurt should’ve mentioned that mansion-sitting was a hazardous job: terrible conditions, deadly obstacles, and that horrible smell.

“Yuck,” gagged Jubilee. “Smells like... like... gunpowder.” She sniffed again. “Or maybe Remy’s cookin’.”

Gunpowder? Elf boy mentioned a big boom coming from Betsy’s room during Magneto’s grand entrance. Had the time now, might as well check it out. Besides, it was close.

Very first thing she noticed at Betts’ quarters? No door. The big boom knocked it clean off its hinges and into the wall across the hall. The insides fared no better. All those expensive and delicate Japanese artifacts the telepath so loved were in varying states of brokenness.

Porcelain vases became shards.

Katanas bent from a concussive force.

The bed still smoldered a little.

Mirrors, clothes, and all manners of cloth covered the entire spectrum of charredness.

“Betts is going to blow a gasket.”

No point in staying longer. While admiring an executive leather chair imbedded in the wall passed the time, Jubilee didn’t want Psylocke coming back and blaming her for the mess. Oh, and come back she would seeing how there were no signs of her body parts in the room.

On the way out, she spotted an interesting tidbit. “Hold the phone.”

A green, nylon strap chilled on the floor, bits of tattered material hanging by a pair of intact metal loops on either end of the long strip. Looked like the poor remains of those sports bags Cajun Country and Wolvie used so often. In the words of Betsy, “I hate--absolutely abhor--those pitiful excuses for containers. By God, use a suitcase and get that eyesore out of my face.”

What would Betts be doing with something like this? Easy, she wouldn’t be, which meant the erstwhile cloth belonged to Remy, Wolvie, or someone more sinister, like the certain someone who carried explosives in this bag and fucked up Betts’ room.

“Jubes,” the girl said to herself, “You’re a freakin’ genius.”

She fished a stick from the ground, carefully lifted the strap up, and dunked it in her pocket. Hey, she learned the trick from CSI. Now, off to the labs down below! There were fingerprints to be had!

She was about to skitter off when the faint sounds of heavy breathing graced her ears. From where? From there! From that room! With a fearsome battle cry, Jubilee bolted down the hallway and jump kicked the door (Not like the Professor wasn’t going to repair everything anyway). The effect would’ve been spectacular if the door flew open, but it didn’t. Instead, Jubilee’s nasty kick made a hole which did an admirable job of trapping her leg.

The heavy breathing slowed. Quiet footsteps shuffled closer. Jubilee prepared herself for the worst and began gathering her pyrotechnic powers.

“Jubilation? Is that your leg or are you just happy to see me?”

She dissipated her sparks and let her racing heart slow. “Papa bear,” she sighed, “Ain’t I glad it’s you.” Her cheeks brightened when she remembered her precarious position. “Umm... little help?”

Furry hands eased her limb out of the hole. As Jubilee plopped onto the floor rubbing her sore and scratched leg, Hank McCoy opened the door and smiled at her to keep the mood light; however, the jovial greeting failed to erase his puffy red eyes, matted hairs, and haggard expression.

Right away, Jubilee picked up on his less-than-happy disposition. “Whoa, you look like day old crud.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment: I feel like week old crud.”

Like Emma said: “They’re young, not stupid.” Though her grades didn’t reflect the statement, no one mistook her for a dim witted fool either. The facts present told Jubilee why Hank was standing here and not captured like the other X-Men.

Well, the facts and the rumors she’d been gathering for some days.

“Should I just leave or do you wanna hang?”

“I suppose the adult response would be to assist you in this rather cataclysmic event.”

“Screw being adult for a second, big blue. Elf boy left me here to look after people, and I ain’t skimpin’. You need to be alone or you need to talk?”

Jubilation Lee--how much Logan’s little girl had grown. The rebel still burned within her, but she tempered it with uncanny wisdom, the product of many years in the line of fire. If he scoured his brain far enough, Hank could see the too cool for school teen trying her hardest to look and sound apathetic during her first visit to the mansion.

In a way, Logan’s little girl became everyone’s little girl, and those endearing memories warmed Hank just enough to open up. The Beast parked his big self on the ground in front of the teen. “This cowering doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“No biggie.” Jubilee stretched a few times to work the kinks out of her leg. “Don’t tell no one, but there’s been plenty of times I just wanted to hide under my bed. Can’t blame you, ya know, having quit and all.”

Hank hung his bedraggled head. “Oh my stars and garters... I’ve let those close to me down again.”

“You didn’t, papa bear.”

“How’s that? The very second the mansion shakes, I’m locked in a closet praying for the fear to leave my bones. How are my actions not deplorable?”

“Well, ya didn’t die--that, in my humble opinion, would’ve been the ultimate letdown. Think of it this way: if you’d thrown yourself in front of Magneto and his cronies, they would’ve swiss cheesed you.”

The mention of Magneto sent Hank closer to the edge. “Magneto? He was here?!”

“Whoa,” calmed Jubilee. “Forget your meds this morning? You’ve seen the man before--about yay high and greasy white hair.” The girl gazed into Hank’s eyes and shook her head. “What’s wrong with you, Hank? Never seen you like this before, all petered out and cringin’. You used to be superman, big blue.”

“My dear, even Superman hung up his cape.”

“Yeah, but he put it back on when trouble came a knockin’. I dunno, maybe you just need to leave it all behind for a little, ya know? Sort like what Wolvie does? I hate it when he takes off like that, but I have to admit he comes back brand spankin’ new.”

“I have been away, but the distance has not helped. My Walden Pond eludes me.”

Walden... who? “Over my head.”

“My peace eludes me,” Hank clarified. Dr. McCoy took control when he realized Jubilee truly had no inkling of the literary reference. “Of course you’ve read Walden Pond by the great Transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau. He talks of a detachment from society and the fulfillment brought about by an intimate communion with Nature. If I remember right, Ms. Frost made it required reading at the Massachusetts Academy, citing it as a valuable treatise on civil disobedience, life experiences, nature’s beauty, and personal freedom.”

Jubilee batted her lashes. “Must’ve missed that one...”

“Missed Thoreau? What in high heaven was going on up there?”

“Back off, I was probably resting my eyes in class.”

Snorting, Hank folded his arms. “Unlikely given Emma’s penchant for telepathic spying.”

“What class would this have been for? History?”

Oh, that got Hank going. “Literature! English!”

“Yup, missed that one. Probably played hooky.”

Hooky? “You play hooky and leave such a wonder to the winds of ignorance? Jubilation Lee, I am sorely disappointed in you!”

“Hey, playin’ hooky’s done plenty good for me, more than this Thoreau guy ever could! I bet all the stuff he’s ever said about life I’ve heard a million times already!”

“Really Ms. Smarty Pants? Let’s hear it then.”

So this guy was a nature lovin’, hippy philosopher, huh? “I bet he said stuff about sanctity of life and how you and me, we’re in this together and we’ll make it through somehow.”

Hank’s eye twitched. “He did write that no human being would ‘wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by the same tenure as he does.’”

“Nice,” she smiled, oddly pleased with herself, “Guess who wrote that junk about being in this together?’”

“Kurt Vonnegut? Ayn Rand? Jack Kerouac?”

“Nope, Trent Reznor, Nine Inch Nails.”

“An outlier of a comment,” Hank dismissed, “Another bull’s-eye may convince otherwise though.”

What else did hippies believe in? “Umm... we live life like a rat race and it’s keeping us down because we’re not concerning ourselves with the big picture?”

“‘The mass of men lead life in quiet desperation,’” Hank quoted, the line very much echoing his current depressed state of being, “And coincidentally enough, Thoreau also noted that ‘the universe is far wider than our views of it.’”

While Jubilee glowed with pride, the intellectual stimulation left Hank and returned him to... to... a happier place? In the wake of his literary escape, Thoreau’s wisdom lingered and pecked at his unraveling, and now seemingly unreasonable, emotional responses to trauma. A great weight eased itself off his shoulders; through the bottomless pit of sorrow he’d drowned himself in, a speck of hope glimmered.

As Thoreau alluded to: life would go on. Whether he hid in a closet or battled megalomaniac mutants, existence would continue. These past six months away from the X-Men, he’d been riding out that wave of ever moving life, rediscovering the inventor and letters aficionado in him. He didn’t realize it then, but locked in his work room without a care, he’d unwittingly found his Walden Pond. Looking back, he’d felt rejuvenated and happy.

Then came Betsy and the trip back to the mansion. Jean supposedly undid Betsy’s damage, but his depression remained and tore down his months of bliss. What was it about this place that made him so susceptible to the dementia? By all accounts, he should’ve been laughing it up with the friends and family he missed so much. Instead of celebrating, he spent the past days locked in an anonymous guest quarter feeling sorry for himself. Not even the best of effort of Jean and Kurt could yank him out of his funk.

Where mightier failed, Jubilee succeeded. Why? Was it the odd sense of privacy a half-destroyed mansion granted? Was it the company, the refreshing take on life by a youthful, vigorous, yet patient counselor? Was it the lack of activity that normally heightened the ambient stress about the X-Men? What was it about this mansion that could so quickly giveth and taketh away like a whimsical child?

Whatever “it” was, Hank felt more alive. The water from his Walden flowed again, refreshing his mind, body, and soul. The hurt still reminded, the hurt from Betsy and past experiences, but they didn’t seem as near or overshadowing anymore. If negative emotions had minds of their own, Hank would’ve postulated that all of them decided to gang up on him at the same time. Seemed like every bad thing that ever happened to him dominated him and only now did they fade into the background, finally distanced by time, reflection, and wisdom.

He smiled at Jubilee, a genuine one this time, not the forced lip movements he’d been using since he showed up here. “Your scholarly words amaze me, young lady. Tell me, when did you get so insightful?”

“Since I met all of you.”

“A lie,” he chuckled, ruffling her hair, “but one which pleases the ear.”

“Y’ok now, papa bear? Ya suddenly look like Wolvie after one of his trips. Should I be sad or glad?”

“Glad,” he responded. “And thank you.”

The loud rumble of a plane approached and sent the two scrambling to the windows. A sleek, black jet touched down on the front lawn and blew loose blades of grass into the mansion.

“The Mark 3,” whispered Jubilee.

“I suppose this is a good thing.”

“With the way today’s been going so far? Don’t hold your breath.”

Lights and engines shut down; the landing platform didn’t open. Kitty phased through the metal, in her arms a lump of person. Upon seeing the sorry state of the mansion, the brunette dropped herself and her large burden to the ground, the defeat evident for anyone in plain sight.

“Get on,” said Hank, gesturing for Jubilee to climb on his back, “We’re taking a short cut.”

The Asian girl grabbed a fistful of fur and barely suppressed a “Yeeee-haaaaw!” as the Beast once again took to the air. Maybe there were other problems in and around the world, but here, right now, at least the real McCoy had returned.

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

Yvette Kelson-Pratt was in love. One second she free fell from the top of the Empire State Building while going through the mandatory flashback of one’s life; the next a dreamy man on a motorcycle jumped high into the air and impossibly caught her in his strong yet gentle arms. That smile, that face, those strangely alluring eyes, that slight smell of cigarette smoke...

“So sexy,” she breathed.

Didn’t matter the dude just wrecked his Harley. Didn’t matter he was freezing cold and wet. Didn’t matter he had a terrible case of five o’clock shadow. Yvette was in love and she couldn’t get enough of those dashing features and smooth, silky movements. What a strapping specimen of a man this stranger was. What grace, what speed, what looks, what else?

“Chere, you can leggo of Remy now.”

He referred to himself in the third person! How refreshingly quaint! Oh, and was that a Cajun accent she heard? Whatever, he could be a caveman and she’d lose herself in his voice. His command of the English language only made him so much more appealing.

You know though, a caveman might’ve been nice.

Normally, Remy enjoyed the lavish attentions of the opposite sex. Whether at a bar or on a mission, the women adored him and he adored them back. Now, however, was a bad time for his magnetic personality to stick another damsel on him. The Blackbird went down not three blocks away, some kind of red lightning shot into the sky in Battery Park, and if he wasn’t going nuts, Magneto and a motley crue of mutants just parked themselves atop a skyscraper.

Hmm, maybe he did have time for this woman.

Dodging foot and vehicular traffic, Remy--with woman still in his arms--ducked into a twenty four hour video store. Being such a late hour, most of the customers inside congregated around the adult section in the back, and upon hearing the ragin’ Cajun’s entrance, ten pairs of eyes glanced at him.

The spectacle wearing clerk behind the counter droned “Can I help you folks?” before going back to his activity of flipping channels, obviously with no intent of actually helping.

Remy set the woman down and turned on his charm. “Mind tellin’ Remy why pretty things be fallin’ from da sky?”

Yvette wanted to kiss him. Wasn’t that how damsels rewarded their knights? No, a kiss was too forward and made her look desperate. Actually, she was desperate, so no inaccuracies there. Her near-fatal fall, subsequent adrenaline rush, the unrelated eight months of celibacy, and this tall, dark, and handsome sex god destroyed the little self-control she had. Life could end at any moment: no way would this stranger be getting away without a kiss.

Oh no, what if he had a wife? Worse yet, what if he was gay? Men looking this good always had strings attached. Would he sue her for sexual assault? Damn, she couldn’t afford to lose her job! She couldn’t take him turning her down either. No, no, no, what if he turned her down AND sued her? Why did his presence seem to bear down on her? Why was the video store so hot all of a sudden? Why did she feel like such a loser?!

Fuck it, girl, stop thinking and starting acting.

Three of the customers put down the adult videos and leered at the developing scene.

Hearing no answer and seeing immense concentration, Remy pressed his lips thinner, raised an eyebrow, and ran a hand through his hair. “Dis angel speaks, no?”

Ruffled, wet locks of brown and the sultry, lyrical words--Yvette gulped. “H...h... Hi.”

Hi? The man of her dreams rescued her from a fateful splat and all her mouth could muster was “Hi?”

“Maybe we got off on de wrong foot,” smiled Remy, “De name’s Remy, Remy LeBeau. Et toi?”

Quick! Make up something! No, real name, just in case he asked for a number! Fake name! Real name! Yvette threw her arms up in frustration and flung herself into his face. The initial act would’ve been so much more suave, smooth, and sexy if she didn’t aim too high and smooch his nose. She corrected the mistake ASAP.

The rest of the video store customers watched from their barricades in the adult section.

The store clerk finally settled on one channel and turned up the volume.

“-to call everyone’s attention to these events. Stay calm, citizens of New York. The authorities are working as hard as they can to neutralize these mutant threats. The United States military is mobilizing as we speak, so I urge all of you to stay indoors and do not, under any circumstances, get in the way of these bloodthirsty, insane mutants! Magneto will be stopped-”

“Mon dieu,” grumbled Remy, separating himself from Yvette. The woman sighed contently while he tore out of the video store and back into the increasingly chaotic streets.

While Yvette swooned, the customers resumed their perusal of the adult content.

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

Tessa watched New York crumble. As Magneto’s declaration of war disseminated into the community, more and more mutants came out of hiding to exact revenge against their persecutors. Grossly deformed mutants showed themselves, some coming from the back alleys, most rising from the sewers. The Morlocks might’ve been massacred, but enough poor abominations still sought shelter in Manhattan’s filthy underbelly. Suddenly, turning the corner meant the real possibility of running into certain doom, especially if humans came across the more aggressive packs of homo superiors.

A shame. Many could’ve become so much more than transient freak shows; their unique abilities fit many of them into society. What construction company couldn’t use a powerful brute? What law firm couldn’t use an eidetic memory? Prejudice precluded them from reaching their potentials because they were different. Magneto gave his species an opportunity to show their oppressors true fear; he gave them a banner to rally around.

One way or another, the white haired wacko would fulfill his people’s potential.

Yet, while mutants fought for their future and their vengeance, unsavory humans ransacked their own people. Cinder blocks broke the windows of abandoned stores; gunfire carried into the night winds. Police sirens bathed streets in blue and red, but not even they could dam the rivers of blood winding into the gutters. In a truly sad twang of irony, by Tessa’s estimation, humans inflicted more damage on themselves than the mutants did on them.

This... this civilization... these people... This was what Charles Xavier wanted to coexist with: opportunistic drones who paid heed to nothing but themselves. Humans.

Tessa’s gaze shifted to Battery Park where hell made its home on earth. Sickening beings crept from an ephemeral tear in reality itself. Awesome outputs of energy pulsed from the portal, each peak signaling another round of demons entering the fray.

And the demons slaughtered everything. For now, Belasco’s small army forced him to remain in the park, unable to take on the vast numbers of humans and mutants. Other pieces would keep him in check until his time. Everyone had a role to play in this game, and Belasco served as the coup de grace. Where thousands of mutants would fail, an endless supply of demons would prevail. It all had to do with timing, planning, and anticipation.

From high above, Tessa watched one of mankind’s greatest cities fall. Everyone reaped what they sow, human, mutant, or demon.

Dear Professor Charles Xavier was no exception.

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

One of Quiet Bill’s portals appeared over North Cove. He walked through, followed closely by an impressive sword which was in turn held by an even more impressive man. If Battery Park hadn’t soaked up everyone’s attention, this scene would’ve ended up on the front page of the New York Times. As things stood, no one noticed the two men because everyone was busy running for their lives.

No one noticed Vargas smile and behead Quiet Bill.

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

“-has no demands. He’s calling for all of mutantkind to rebel and he’s chosen Manhattan to be his staging ground! I tell you, we should’ve eradicated all mutants when we had the chance!”

“You’re proving the man right and adding fuel to the fire. This is an exact replaying of the 60’s Civil Rights Movement, only scaled up on violence.”

“What the hell are you?! A mutie lover?! By God, the Church of Humanity has been right all along!”

“These people are merely isolationists: they’re fed up with their horrible treatment and want a home for themselves.”

“Not at the cost of millions of lives and trillions of dollars! Not on my watch! New York City is not some backwater track of land I’m willing to give up to appease some mutie! I have family there! I have investments there! We need to send Magnet Head or Mango or whatever he’s calling himself to Northern Alaska where he can take his mutie rejects and leave us normal folk in peace!”

“You’re proposing a mass exodus like when the United States put Native Americans on reservations? Tell me, how did that move work out?”

“Just fine! They were impeding our manifest destiny! We need a ri-”

Over a hundred people packed into the lobby of Frost Tower. Firemen stood shoulder to shoulder with the building’s security guards. Reporters actually stopped taking photos. Teary children hugged whoever was near: parents, ravers, policemen, rescue workers, homeless people. None had ever seen so much brutality, and the sight of their fellow man killed or killing sobered each individual in the room. They felt like victims of conquering armies, helpless and terrified. Some tried to be strong, but the surrounding despair--cries for absent parents, frantic cell phone calls to family--drained the optimism away. Windows revealed the ongoing apocalypse outside.

Motorists abandoned their cars.

A rail thin mutant strangled a woman.

His deformed friend sat on a newspaper stand and cheered him on.

Betsy meditated at the front entrance.

A bus lay on its side, its occupants either in this lobby or dead.

Cries for help went ignored, the plea too numerous to respond to.

A small fire from spilled gasoline winded its way through the streets like a bright snake.

And inside, every one kept an eye and an ear to the television.

“-bad business! We need the marines! We need fighter jets! Let’s see how this maniac responds to fifty caliber bullets!”

“Are you insane? We’ve seen his response time and time before and it’s never been positive for the armed forces. Violence is not the answer.”

“Violence is the only answer! We’re through talking and being peaceful because that’s what got us here today!”

“Your lack of-”

Emma turned off the annoying, cross-fire debate. All sound faded away with the television. “Well, at least we know why mutants are tearing through the city.”

The paramedic, the one with the last name of Carter, spoke for each person in the room. “Aren’t you a mutant?”

Fateful acts came in two flavors: the insignificant yet remarkable or the significant and remarkable. To admit or not to admit--this was Emma’s moment of truth, her very significant, very remarkable fateful decision. The Dark Beast already let out the can of worms, and if she ran, she’d spend forever and a day running from this moment.

Moments of truth had a way of haunting liars like that.

A portion of these people saw her assume her diamond body to fight off the demons, but her strengthened telepathy could erase their memories; however, others not in here could’ve witnessed her transformation. Cameras, so many cameras at the crash site--how many were live? How many weren’t destroyed? How many people here had pictures of her shining body? Denial tempted Emma. While it wasn’t the best solution, it was the easiest because it only addressed the present.

She found the present easier to face when the future didn’t factor in.

If she denied the fact, what kind of example would she set to her students? What kind of person would she be? She’d be the White Queen, the woman she hated, the one who let down every child who believed in her. The new leaf she turned over would blow away and leave her with nothing to show for. That was the price of denial, and the reward? Nothing, or nothing guaranteed. She could still lose her company. These people would still be skeptical. The proof would still be out there.

She cloaked herself in the White Queen but didn’t let the persona dictate her actions. Her back straightened. Her eyes acquired a hue of steel. She exuded an aura of command and nobility. This was her sanctuary, her palace, and these refugees, like it or not, were her subjects.

“I am a mutant,” confirmed Emma. Before the admission sunk in, she went on the offensive and leveled her fiercest glare at the crowd.

“Are you surprised that I’d offer protection to humans?” she demanded. “Do you think my goodwill is actually a trap?”

Some looked away.

“Of course you do,” she mocked, “mutants are monsters. We don’t have hearts, we don’t have families, we don’t have dreams, we don’t have lives. We’re just your worst nightmares come true. It’s fine that you look at us like pariahs. It’s fine you fear us. We’re mutants and we’re beyond help, beyond mercy, beyond your wildest imagination, beyond fucked up freaks.”

Disgusted at the stunned silence, the blonde shook her head. “The sad truth is that we are all those things. We’re that and much worse not because of our genetics but because of your treatment. Mutants are monsters because you force the role upon them. Magneto is the manifestation of your bigotry and this destruction is the backlash against your cruelty.

“Me? I am a mutant, but I refuse be anyone’s buffoon. I refuse to propagate the mess your shoddy treatment has started. I refuse to follow Magneto’s ludicrous battle cry. I can’t decide how I was born, but I can decide what I will become.

“I am a mutant. I am a businesswoman. I am a teacher. I live, I breathe, I feel, I hope, I hurt, I succeed, and I fail, just like everyone here. I know wrong when I see it, and this bedlam outside is wrong. There is no way declaring war on humans will accomplish anything but the total annihilation of both sides. Not every mutant wants to rule the world or kill all you ‘flatscans.’ I will not stoop to the pathetic level of dogmatists like the Church of Humanity or Magneto. I am better than them, and if I must use kindness to spite their ilk, then I will.”

The tension thickened so much it weighed down on everyone’s lungs. “Look around you,” Emma commanded. A few hesitant eyes stared into hopeless ones. “This is how most mutants live--packed together in fear, hoping that they’ll survive the day. How’s the role reversal? Does it feel good to know the very next slip up can be your last? Don’t you want your children to grow up cowering till the end of their sad little existences? No, of course not.

“So why am I saving your lives? Because I know the terror you feel and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone else, mutant or human. Because in order to change your stubborn minds about mutants, I have to start somewhere. Because I hate Magneto for single-handedly putting our progress toward a peaceful coexistence into the stone age. Because while humanity itself has wronged me, none of you have.”

Paramedic Carter cringed.

“Ah,” Emma smiled, “except for him, but I can forgive simpletons.”

Getting off her high horse, she sauntered to the front entrance where Betsy sat. Most, still shocked over her words, parted. Some, respect and gratitude in their eyes, nodded at her. A few, curious and leery, blocked her way.

“What’s your mutant power?”

A woman, and if the voice recorder sticking out of her pocket was any indication, one of the handful of reporters in the room. Her city had been taken over by mutants, she’d escaped doom not thirty minutes ago, and all she wanted was the scoop.

Just throwing her existence away for her job, wasn’t she?

Emma respected the reporter’s audacity. She also used her utter stupidity.

“I can turn my body to diamond,” the blonde answered, shifting before the reporter for good measure. “The ability becomes rather impressive because I lose none of my speed or flexibility and retain the strength and durability of this precious stone. Is that sufficient for you?”

And like a chastised child, the reporter stepped aside.

What a boon--got that underlying question out of the way, settled the unsettled people, and avoided lying by not revealing the whole truth. If by chance they’d get out of this jam alive, the admission of such a “socially acceptable” power would set many investors, employees, and nosy people at ease. She’d be the family friendly mutant, and the image suited her fine if it gave her an edge against those who’d wish her fortune gone. True, she was also a telepath, but no one needed to know.

Happy day.

“Umm, what’s that other woman doing?”

The reporter again, and this time, she bridged the gap from useful to annoying. “Saving your worthless life,” sneered Emma as she returned to her normal state of being.

Everyone resumed the quiet whispers amongst themselves, Emma Grace Frost the subject of their talks and gazes. Meanwhile, Emma only had eyes for one person.

*You’re straining, Betsy.*

Her fellow mutant shifted her body to get more comfortable. *I’ll have you know psychically encouraging everyone in the vicinity to ignore a building is hard work.*

*We can switch off.*

*No. Just don’t bother me and I’ll be fine. Keeps my mind off of Belasco.*

Damn it, Emma was never good at this affection stuff. She wanted to say something inspiring, but her considerable vocabulary didn’t wake up. Seemed as if no words embodied the encouragement, faith, and strength she wanted to convey.

*The sentiments across the bond are enough,* Betsy said, *The feeling is mutual.*

*I’m turning into a romantic sap.*

*Don’t worry--I can’t associate you with bad poetry, walks on the beach, or old 80’s love songs just yet.*

*And don’t ever.*

Peeling away from Betsy’s smug laughter, Emma brought herself back to the crowd. She had to do something about this packed place. Mutants and demons came in all shapes, sizes, and powers. Who knew if any of them could see through Betsy’s psychic ruse and charge the place? If that happened, fending off whatever attacks while keeping people alive would be impossible.

“Everyone, up to the second floor,” she boomed, pointing at the elevators and staircases. “Stay away from all the windows, and by God, don’t do anything stupid like run outside or steal my property.”

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

*We always find a way.*

Logan grunted while he fiddled with the wires. A wrong connection sparked enough electricity to jolt him, prompting his fist to smash into the offending device. “Sonovabitch!”

*Don’t talk. Just think. Talking takes up oxygen we don’t have.*

*Sonovabitch!* he mentally repeated.

After poking at the machine, Jean shrugged at him. *I think that was the climate control unit.*

*Hmph. Could’ve used that.*

Indeed they could’ve. Trapped in the bowels of Asteroid M, the two explored every avenue of escape but came up empty. The shell, the supposed Weapons Plus station, floated away long ago and left the rocky formation to drift toward the sun. Unprotected, the harsh rays would eat up the asteroid and their lives.

No propulsion. No life support. No escape. The overbearing heat and stale air weighed on their hopes and bodies. They worked, but each passing moment made them more desperate. Logan peeled the remains of his uniform away; Jean stripped to her bra.

*Got a question for ya, Red.*

Muscles weakened and head foggy, Jean sat herself down and motioned for her friend to ask away.

*I know ya got the Phoenix in ya. I know everyone back at the flamin’ mansion’s pissin’ their pants cuz they think you’re going to kill the universe. I’m just wonderin’ why you ain’t ridin’ the Phoenix Airways n’ flying us outta here.*

*The Phoenix doesn’t work that way.*

*Then how does it work?*

Memories wheeled themselves into Jean’s consciousness and she struggled to make them coherent. *Ever since I was thirteen, I found out I could control matter. I started lifting pencils and socks, but with the Professor’s help, I did much more. Now, with the Phoenix, I’m learning to control molecules and atoms, the very fabric of existence.*

*You could be all powerful,* he said. *You could make worlds and set right what’s wrong.*

*The Phoenix doesn’t create--it destroys. It... it judges and burns away what shouldn’t be there. It talks to me, tells me things, but if I get too close, it replaces me.* She buried her head in her sweaty arms. *Ask Betsy. She’s felt the Phoenix before.*

*Sure, I’ll ask Betts once you fly us outta here.*

*Logan, I can’t fly, not the way you’re thinking of it. The Phoenix might be part of me, but I still need water and air. I said I could manipulate molecules, but space is an empty vacuum. I can’t manipulate nothing.*

Suddenly, another explosion shook Asteroid M and threw a standing Logan into the control panel he’d slashed earlier. Not hurt but mighty frustrated, the man roared at the broken technology and wailed on it again, pounding the metal and circuit boards till his knuckles revealed shiny adamantium. It stuttered pitifully before giving up and shutting down.

A final boot expelled the last of his wrath. *There’s gotta be a way out. I’ll make one if I have to.*

While Wolverine raged, Jean stared off into the distance, what little clothes clinging to her toned body and thoroughly soaked. All kinds of thoughts flashed through her mind and she voiced one of them. *The Professor was so terrified earlier when he screamed about traitors. Maybe Magneto had something to do with it?*

*Probably,* snorted Logan, *Somebody’s been undermining us at the school. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it then, but y’know how hindsight is. I dunno, might as well put the blame on him, right?*

Silence.

*Jean?*

The red head sat still.

“Jeanie?”

With a confused shudder, her attention returned. *Sorry. I suddenly got this craving for a triple fudge banana split with walnuts, sprinkles, and gummy bears.*

*Gummy bears?*

*What’s wrong with gummy bears?*

*Nothin’. Myself, I like ‘em with an ice cold beer straight from the tap.*

*Everything tastes better with beer.*

*Damn straight it does.*

Too exhausted, Jean stretched onto the floor. *And what were you saying before I zoned out?*

*I smelled trouble back at the mansion. Been wonderin’ why so many of us were at each other’s necks in recent weeks. Now that we’re stuck in a deathtrap that looks a flamin’ lot like Magneto’s old house, I gotta blame him fer our troubles.* He laughed bitterly. *Or maybe I’m just going nuts. Maybe Magneto’s got nothin’ to do with anything n’ the prize goes to Tessa or Xorn or Gumbo or Pryde. I don’t know nothin’ anymore.*

A chill embraced her. Goosebumps popped up on her arms. Her brain said hot but her body said cold. *I’ve stopped sweating. That’s bad, isn’t it?*

*S’ok,* he said, padding over to where she lay, *As long as you stay awake, yer fine.*

He didn’t cradle her--that was Summer’s job. His job as a friend was to comfort, not touch. Jean didn’t make it easy being so weak and vulnerable, but Logan firmly believed in the sanctity of marriage, enough to edge away in these trying times. Sure, he’d crossed the line before, but he always stopped whenever he could.

For now, he could help it. He wished he couldn’t but he could.

*Don’t give up now, Red. The others are probably bangin’ down the doors. ‘sides, you said the Phoenix judges things. How can it let you die before it’s even finished judging our stinkin’ planet?*

*Maybe it’s finished judging and this is our fate.*

*Bullshit! When there’s a will, there’s a flamin’ way! I spent six months under glacier by eatin’ strips of me off my own arm. There’s always a way, Jeanie! Ya can’t quit on me like this!*

And Jean grinned at Logan’s knightly words. *You’re going to fight the sun for me, Logan?*

To hell with crossing the line--he pulled Jean close and brushed away the hairs covering her face. *I ain’t a good man. I kill humans and mutants, don’t matter much after shedding so much blood. I ain’t the one who should be fightin’ for your honor.* He shut his eyes. *I ain’t good enough to do that.*

A trembling hand cupped his chin. Her mental voice softened. *Now who’s b... b... b... bullshitting?* she asked. *You... you’re a great man. Doesn’t matter what you did... how you got here... I’ve seen what you did to be great.*

Somewhere in the cavernous base, metal crashed against metal, another part of the asteroid falling apart. Jean’s eyes widened. *Scott? Is that you?*

What could he say? No? *Scott n’ Hank are gonna be here soon.*

Her cold, clammy skin suddenly became hot coals. *Burning,* she moaned, worming about in his arms, *The Phoenix is here and it’s burning... judging... disinfecting. It doesn’t like what it sees...*

God, she was hallucinating. She needed to stay awake to fight away her demons. *It’s ok, Jean. Let it out, just don’t let it pull you in.*

*No! It’s burning! The voices are telling me to fall away! Blood... so much blood spilled, all the sacrifice... it’s not ENOUGH!*

He pressed his lips against her dry forehead. He didn’t even pretend that everything was ok.

Green eyes dilated and froze open. *Rachel. RACHEL! No! I... not now, I can’t. I need more time. Shut up! I said I need more time!*

A spasm gripped her and wouldn’t let go. Logan loosened his arms to let her move as she pleased. She looked like a person battling ghosts, and with the crap that she’d been through, it probably wasn’t far from the truth. Her red hair toss and turned, the last beads of sweat flung from her.

Finally spent, she stopped. The madness left her. “Logan,” her throat rasped out, “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” he replied, “I’m right beside you.”

*The Phoenix is calling to me. This is it. This is the end. Please, don’t leave.*

“Gonna stay here.”

Her whole body tensed. She coughed to chase away the nausea and unrelenting discomfort. *Don’t leave, it hurts so much.*

“I’m here, Jeanie, and I will be here fer an eternity if ya need me.”

*Good... just... good....* She almost relaxed but another shot of pain rippled through her, making her wriggle and toss and turn, albeit weakly.

Logan held her tight, as if keeping her close could keep her forever. *I’d die to save you.*

The words barely registered. *Don’t Logan... don’t...*

* I can’t make your pain my own.*

Tears fell onto her face. *It wants me... it won’t give up...*

*I’m useless, and no, I’m not a good man. I’m not good enough to love you. I’m not good enough to save us. I’m sorry.*

Nothing made sense anymore. Her soul told her things her mind couldn’t decipher. She called out to the people who loved her. *Scott? Rachel? Nathan?* In a quieter voice, *Logan?*

*I’m right here, Red, and I can only take the pain away.*

Snikt.

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

Not every mutant rebelled like anarchists. Not every human ran like chickens with their heads cut off. And while society did lean toward a strained cross species relationship, a good handful of beings did get along.

Even mutants had families and friends.

Take Marissa Ackerman for instance. Marissa was the twenty four year old, nine month pregnant wife of one Jack Ackerman. Marissa herself? Human. Her husband? Mutant. Despite the difference, the two adored each other, the gene discrepancy doing nothing to dampen their affections. Jack worked as an accountant at Frost Enterprises. Marissa, till her pregnancy, was an interior designer of no small fame. They shared a modest (and expensive) downtown apartment and kept to themselves, content to live out their dreams without worldly interference. Neighbors called them the perfect couple; colleagues envied their strong relationship.

Too bad the fairy tale ended tonight.

Halfway through her sleep, an odd hunger struck Marissa. Many mothers could attest to the sudden, and often outrageous, cravings for a peculiar food. Many fathers could attest to rolling out of bed late at night and fulfilling these cravings whether they be chocolate jelly beans, fried bananas, nacho cheese lathered hotdogs, or, in the case of Marissa, a seven layer burrito with extra sour cream. Being the dutiful husband, Jack slipped on his shoes, kissed his wife, and went around the corner to a twenty-four seven fast food joint.

For some odd reason the line was incredibly long, so long Marissa called his cell phone... twice, both times wondering where her burrito was. By the time his turn rolled around, Jack, hungry himself, tacked on two tacos to the order.

In hindsight, the tacos killed him.

Police sirens streaked by. The televisions started talking about a crashed plane in the New York Bay. Absorbed by the gripping news, the restaurateurs slowed their production of fine Mexican cuisine, not that Jack or his fellow customers minded since they too stood transfixed. They were wrapping up Jack’s tacos when livid mutants kicked the door down.

One of them, a young man who claimed to have been fired for his appearance (horn-like bulges in his forehead and scaly skin) angrily yelled at the owner of the establishment. The customers tried to leave, but the gang had none of it and attacked people with no remorse. Always a peacemaker, Jack stepped in to quell the disturbance.

The angry young man pulled out a gun and shot the meddlesome “flatscan” in the head.

No, Jack’s mutation wasn’t apparent: his forearm and calves had decent sized fins on them, good for swimming but a nuisance any other time. He hid the fleshy extensions as best he could, and tonight, he hid them too well. He died before he hit the ground.

His cell phone rang again but no one picked up.

Meanwhile, back at home, Marissa nervously watched the television talk about a mutant uprising in downtown Manhattan. A plane plunged itself into the Upper Bay. Some strange weather front appeared over Battery Park. Jack wasn’t answering his phone.

Jack wasn’t answering his phone!

Marissa threw on a jacket and waddled to the streets.

Outside: pandemonium. Stampeding feet, piercing screams, and cries for help deafened her. People ran in all directions, occasional glimpses of vengeful mutants causing pockets of terror. Marissa waded in the Mexican restaurant’s direction when her water broke. A forceful shove from a passerby knocked her into a small, abandoned convenience store. She considered braving the crowds again, but her maternal instincts wouldn’t let her.

She tried Jack’s cell phone again. No answer. Voicemail only.

Fear for herself and their unborn child consumed her. No way could she get to a hospital now. No way could an ambulance get to her. No way she was going to let these violence mutants harm her.

Out of options, Marissa pushed a small ice cream freezer in front of the door. Wasn’t much, but at least it presented an obstacle for potential intruders. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead showed too much of the store’s interior, enough for the perceptive to see Marissa wherever she hid. She hunted for the light switches but found the fuse box instead.

It would have to do.

Some flicks of the wrist later, the entire store darkened. Tiredly, the woman stumbled to the back where the fridge displayed beer, sodas, and ice. She could feel her child coming. She’d need water to keep herself hydrated and probably ice chips to gnaw on, or at least, that’s what the instructor said at the Lamaze class.

Whatever happened, she wouldn’t fail her child. Her back ached, her heart raced, and she had no idea what happened to Jack, but she wouldn’t fail her child.

She dialed Jack’s number again. Voicemail again.

“You’ve reached Jack Ackerman. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Marissa stifled her sobs. “Jack, where are you? I need you, Jack...”

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

Too much power drove people insane: Lorna Dane was a perfect example. Between the regular doses of Kick and her secondary mutation, her mind splintered apart into incoherent slivers. Negative emotions, first at the mansion, now in the city, mingled with her body and simulated dangerous levels of adrenaline. Her cells fed from the hormone and worked overtime, processing it in ways a normal body couldn’t. Her bones increased in mass. Her muscles tetanized. Her skin renewed itself. She became stronger and faster, her physical abilities pushed beyond even the most impressive of mutants.

And the ability sustained itself. Lorna’s body hungered for more power and the hunger changed her mind. She became a battery store for negative emotions, and when she was fully charged, the excess bled off into the world to breed more negativity. Kick sped the process, increased her already massive energy capacity, and projected more excess angst and anger.

The more others fought, the more power she gained. The more power she gained, the more she made people fight. The more people fought, the more her mind fractured. The more her mind fractured, the less she cared about the consequences of her power.

Lorna stopped caring two months ago when she took her first hit of Kick.

Lorna was ecstatic when she stopped caring. Jean and Scott’s diabetes inducing marriage didn’t bother her. Alex rejecting her sexual advances didn’t wound her self-esteem. Everyone at the mansion just seemed so pleasant to be around when one ignored the tension and drama. Everything at the mansion just seemed so interesting when people were ready to pounce on each other.

Then Papa came and made life better. Said he didn’t die in Genosha; said he had a plan to use her newfound power. Help Papa and use power? How could she say no? That, and Papa had some good Kick. Not as good as the stuff that came in those mysterious packages, but good.

A long, circuitous route followed, and the end result landed her here on the Empire State Building holding a magnetic shield around the roof as Papa waited for their fellow mutants to gather around. Boring stuff, but the negative emotions swamped her by the second, so that made Lorna happy. Actually, much of the negative emotions came off of one source.

Let’s see: Bishop, Alex, Paige, and Charles were unconscious. Fantomex and Bobby talked while Esme watched Tessa lean against the railing, not a care in the world. Papa, with the ever present Toad, observed his people destroy the humans.

“Ororo,” said Lorna as she walked to the collared and restrained woman, “You’re very hostile.”

“You sicken me.”

Wow. No preamble, build up, or pretense of confusion--Lorna liked the no nonsense rage. She liked it so much she laughed. Weren’t the X-Men so much more enjoyable when livid?

In contrast, Storm didn’t find anything to laugh about as she chaffed against her icy shackles.

Lorna thought the effort cute. “Awww, Stormy wanna play?”

A kick shattered the ice. A mere thought and metal pipes strapping down her limbs straightened, freeing a powerless but incensed Ororo. She might’ve been unarmed, but how many people had underestimated her resourcefulness and fighting ability? Too many to count, and Lorna looked to be among those. Mattered little she was a friend: anyone who attacked her team, her family, automatically labeled themselves enemies.

Instinct guided Storm. She palmed a sharp shard of ice and stabbed it into Lorna’s temple. Bobby saw the incident and tried to act, but Fantomex drew his gun, stopping any thoughts of rebellion. Magneto, Toad, and Tessa seemed unconcerned, each absorbed in their own musings and activities. Esme yelled a warning to Lorna.

Flesh should’ve given way under Storm’s attack. Blood should’ve squirted out. Neither happened: the improvised shiv powdered like it hit a brick wall. Smiling, Lorna rammed her fist into Storm’s gut, collapsing her in one blow. On the ground, Ororo gasped and wretched, her insides burning from oxygen deprivation. Lorna pulled two steel bars out of the Empire State Building and wrapped them around her prisoner, rebinding her arms to her sides and fastening her legs together. Using the metal as fulcrums for her magnetic powers, she stood Storm up.

“Fair is fair,” Lorna giggled, “You hit me, I hit you. Do you want to play again?”

Lorna was nuts. Somewhere in the back of the churning pain, Ororo knew Lorna was crazy. The steady, reliable Polaris no longer resided behind those eyes, killed by this imposter, this enemy. The damned collar around her neck became a source of never-ending frustration and hate. Mattered not where or how Magneto got these collars, how he so thoroughly ambushed the X-Men, or why he wanted to start his revolution here, Ororo would kill them.

No one preyed on her like this. No one.

And what about Tessa? She was free, but she did nothing. At least Bobby tried to help, but Tessa dispassionately stood to the side. She observed, or maybe she plotted, or maybe she hid--no one could ever tell when she assumed her coldest demeanor. Was... was that a smile on her face?

Strong fingers closed around Storm’s neck, not enough to choke but enough to menace. “You’re no fun, Ororo. Where’s the leader of the X-Men? Where’s the bitch behind the broad? I always thought you were a lioness, but right now, you’re a kitty cat.”

The fingers squeezed and whatever retort Storm had sunk. She tried to kick her feet and move her hands but the metal bars held tight. Air, precious air escaped her. The world darkened, blotches wiping out her vision. No, this couldn’t be the end. She refused to lie down like a broken animal. Anger and desperation gave her one last gasp. She moved so much the grip loosened, but before she breathed a full breath, the grip closed again, its force redoubled. The collar pressed into her skin and drew blood.

Ororo’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as the darkness took over.

“My daughter,” declared Magneto, spreading his arms out, “Our army arrives.”

Below, hundreds of mutants, with more pouring in by the second, clamored for their saviors. Lorna let go and levitated Storm, her trophy, over the side of the building so all could see. Rain fell from the suddenly darkened sky, but no downpour could extinguish the flames of rebellion. Lorna smiled and took a hit. Her senses expanded and engulfed the nameless faces, feeding on them and their darkest impulses.

Life was good.

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

Life was bad.

Mystique smelled smoke from miles away. It was the first sign of trouble, but she kept her mouth shut--Rogue didn’t need any more distractions. When red lightning struck the Big Apple, she knew she’d gotten herself into another train wreck of a mess. Bad enough Magneto captured Xavier and company, bad enough Rogue flew at top speed to reclaim her Cajun, bad enough the wind chill froze Mystique’s very core, bad enough, but now, the closer the mother and daughter tandem got to Manhattan, the more traffic jams and random acts of violence came into view.

“Ah never seen people panic like this...”

“They’re humans. They’re stupid.”

A mutant with overgrown arms leapt onto the Long Island Expressway and tried to wallop oncoming cars. He’d overestimated his strength, however, and a speeding Escalade launched him kicking and screaming onto the shoulder. The mutant tumbled into a ditch, out of sight, out of mind.

Rogue glanced at her mother who cut her off.

“Not a word, Rogue.”

“Ah didn’t say nothin’.”

“You just did.”

Manhattan proper appeared underneath, and humans lessened, the streets taken over by mutants. Pockets of SWAT teams and patrolmen did their best to stem the mayhem, but nothing went their way. From being overmatched to outnumbered to outgunned, any semblance of law got routed by mutants. Further into the city, gunfire couldn’t even be heard anymore. Screams, explosions, and celebratory chants became the prominent sounds. The only humans about were fleeing or dying.

Mystique smiled. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all: those insignificant homo sapiens got what was coming to them.

Rogue didn’t share those sentiments. “Mama, this ain’t no time ta laugh!”

“You want me to cry for seeing our people finally fighting back?”

Another gulf between the two stuck its head up. Years spent living under Xavier’s reign opened the road of mutant-human coexistence to Rogue. A better future lay in peace and acceptance, not bitter fighting and genocide. As the Professor said once, civilizations born from the blood of others were doomed to their predecessors’ fate. On the other hand, Mystique believed in battling for a better tomorrow. Might was the only language humans understood, and until mutants showed their awesome might, their inferiors would forever torment them. Peace and happiness weren’t free: they had to be earned, many times through bloodshed.

Mystique disliked Magneto for his hubris, but she agreed with his methodology. And Rogue?

“Ma Gawd, Magneto n’ Lorna’s on top o’ that skyscraper n’ they have Storm!”

Not so much. She almost changed directions and flew into a new ruckus, but Mystique stopped her. “Your Cajun,” she reminded, pointing to an incredibly active but darkened North Cove, “Get out of the sky before Magneto sees us!”

Ororo... Remy... Ororo.... Remy...

“Rogue! Snap out of it!”

Her mentor, her friend, her leader versus the man she loved--what kind of choice was this? Ororo looked battered; Remy just finished a sparring match with Vargas and had to be beat up. Rogue loved both these people, but there was only one of her. Sirens and alarms covered his voice, but Rogue assumed Magneto’s gesturing meant he was about to make an example of Storm. All those frenzied mutants marching through the streets couldn’t be peaceful protestors.

Actually, the calls to “Finish her” pretty much grouped most of them into the angry mob category. “Mama, ah need ya ta find Remy fo’ me.”

After hovering the air for so long, one brunette and her blue mother drew the stares of many. Only fact which kept them unharmed was their very obvious “mutantness.” One particularly brave flier--a pretty black haired woman with hornet’s wings--buzzed up to the deep in thought brunette.

Her gleeful smile and sunny disposition served as a counterpoint to the surrounding destruction. She asked in a helpful tone, “Looking for someone?”

Well, she did seem nice enough. “Ah’m lookin’ for a man, got red pupils and always wearin’ a trench coat. Ya seen him?”

The woman giggled. “Sorry,” she shook her head, “that could be anyone down there. I’ll tell my friends to keep a look out for him though. He your boyfriend or something?”

“Yeah.”

A raking gaze, which could only be described as a visual undressing, startled Rogue. Sighing, the woman smacked her lips and looked disappointed. “Too bad.”

Time for a topic change. “Thank fo’ lookin’ n’ all.”

“No problem,” said the woman, recovering nicely, “We mutants have to look out for each other. Anyway, you going over to Magneto? Says he’s got a plan AND he’s going to execute an X-Man. Bunch of us got up to the front. Gonna be fun!”

Fun? “How can a execution be fun?! That’s someone’s life yer havin’ fun with!”

A store of revulsion built up in the woman, her jovial attitude disappearing like a drop of water in the desert. “I have no sympathy for human lovers,” she bristled, “If the X-Men are against our freedom, then they can die with the rest of these flatscans!”

Mystique wanted to calm her daughter, but Rogue’s fist moved too fast. With a thunderous boom, the winged woman plummeted to the pavement below. Plenty heated stares attached themselves onto the brunette, but Rogue seethed too much to care.

A familiar annoyance welled up in Mystique. Maybe her daughter needed a good smacking to wise up. She almost acted on her impulse too, but her keen perception halted her. An annoyance... an unreasonable, familiar annoyance... sure, she was reasonably ticked off right now, but not to the point of losing her cool. Mystique never lost her cool, but in one night, she found her easy calm a difficult thing to hold on to. This happened at the mansion, disappeared, then happened again here.

The common link? Magneto.

He invaded the mansion earlier, and when he left, the annoyance subsided. She and Rogue entered Manhattan, and low and behold, the feeling returned. Magneto was too much a plotter for this to be a coincidence. Mystique’s instincts just pointed at his involvement, and if one thing Mystique trusted, it was her instincts.

Having a hunch of the cause made fighting the mental suggestion much easier.

“Hang on, Mama. Find Remy n’ ah rescue ‘Ro.”

Speeding like a bullet, Rogue deposited Mystique near North Cove and rocketed back into the air to face Magneto. Stubborn girl, her body moved quicker than her brain, and sooner or later, her body would cash a check her brain didn’t write. She loved her daughter, but that girl... never knew what she’d do next sometimes, even in the face of extreme danger.

Especially in the face of extreme danger.

Since yelling for her to come back was a moot point now, Mystique resigned herself to the task of playing fetch. If this was anyone else besides Rogue, she would’ve told the person to shove it and look for their own damned boy toy. Why even look for him? What was wrong with someone less complicated, like that pretty girl who just got pasted? Why this card throwing Cajun? What was so special about him? Men like that were a dime a dozen in New Orleans.

Not so much the card throwing part, but everything else wasn’t hard to come by.

“Gah, kids these days...”

Love. Can’t explain it, can’t stop it.

A wet jumble struck a tree to her left and pulled her out of her musing. Up ahead, a single man massacred a host of monsters straight out of a Clive Barker novel. Didn’t notice it before, but a swirling cloud of red loomed not far away, sparking and growing like a fetid sore. More monsters fell, cut into ribbons by a sword and the body swinging it. Basking in the pale moonlight and wrapped by shadows, the lone warrior conjured visions of death as he moved with frightening grace and deadly efficiency. Not even the quickest of the beasts got close. Not even the strongest of them stood up to his blows.

Mystique recognized that silhouette.

Finishing off the last of his opposition, Vargas plunged his sword into the soft grass and tightened his gloves. “Destiny’s champion,” he greeted. “Your presence is unanticipated but welcomed.”

Oh hell, not this nut job. Wasn’t he suppose to be in New Orleans? Well, if the Cajun could get from there to here in two blinks of an eye, guess Vargas could too, but just... just...

“Shit.”

Vargas was a nut job, pure and simple. He followed Irene’s predictions religiously, calling her a herald of mutantkind’s true fate. Ever the resourceful one, Irene obliged him, using him like a burlap sack on a twenty acre farm. Neither she nor Mystique trusted (or even liked) him, but a nigh destructible brute who fancied himself a scholar had his uses.

Unfortunately, he considered mutants an aberration and that the homo sapiens superior--those humans who’d reached their full potential--would do away with “Nature’s mistake.” Apparently, Irene’s diaries fit into his twisted worldview about human domination, so in his eyes, she was about the only ok mutant. How a man who took down a building with his sword considered a human Mystique had no clue, but in her estimation, anyone strong enough to accomplish the feat could claim to anything and none would protest. Didn’t might make right?

Whatever the case, Mystique didn’t like Vargas, didn’t want to use him, didn’t want to have anything to do with him, didn’t want Irene to manipulate him, didn’t want Rogue to even know him.

“Destiny,” he mumbled, pulling his sword from the ground, “My Destiny eluded me. My death was to be my glory and my gift to humanity, but Destiny’s daughter wouldn’t see to my fulfillment. I will find the one who took my fate away and inflict an eternity’s pain upon her.”

Yup, nut job. He went beyond nutcase and firmly wedged himself in the nut job category. Any other person would be glad to have their life, but no, not Vargas, not by a long shot. He obsessed himself with fate and destiny and the rise of a hitherto unheard of homo sapiens superior. Did any other human come out of the woodwork and start smashing things to smithereens? No, at least not the way Vargas smashed things.

God, and the worst part of all this? Mystique was stuck with him.

The man wearily tested his sword and cast his eyes toward the blue skinned woman. “Since Destiny was the one who ultimately betrayed me, my revenge will extend to her chosen.”

Life was bad and on a crash course to unbearable. Damn it, the shit she went through for her daughter.

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

“Where did you get this?”

“Betts’ room.”

Scratching her head, Kitty magnified the image. “There’s body oils on the strap and there should be fingerprints.”

The computer cursor ran over the darkened blotches, the pattern indicative of a person’s hand. The brunette circled the obvious fingertips and frowned. “Where we should have something, we don’t have anything. The nearest I can tell, this looks like someone very selectively smudged the fingerprints.”

Her frown intensified. “But I don’t see any signs of the oils smearing.”

Not twenty minutes ago they hauled Scott down here, and immediately big blue went to work like he’d never left. Kitty helped out wherever she could, passing him instruments and adjusting the many Shi’ar devices. When Hank and Kitty had everything under control, Jubilee mentioned her discovery and zoom went the brunette, running the cloth through batteries of tests and coming up with nothing.

From her spot lying on the lab table, Jubilee contributed her two cents to the mystery by noisily chewing on her gum.

“Hank?” asked Kitty, “Any bright ideas?”

The Beast grunted to himself as he positioned a robot medlab assistant to suture Scott’s wounds. “Perhaps the blast in Elisabeth’s room contaminated Jubilee’s hard sought evidence?”

“No, if anything, the explosive materials would’ve clung to the oils and made the fingerprint easier to read.”

“Stranger things have happened, my dear. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“It’s just... I know I can figure this out! It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

Pop went a Bubblicious bubble. “Can I say somethin’?”

Kitty turned to Jubilee and raised an eyebrow.

“I saw this movie once.” The conscious occupants of the medlab squinted at her, their expressions dubious at best. Jubilee, however, noticed none of it. “Real lame, had Dolph Lundgren in it, but yeah, the point is, one guy was about to get caught by the cops. He didn’t want them pulling up his rap sheet so he took a razor to his fingers and went freakin’ Gillette on them!” The girl paused to dramatically simulate someone mangling their own fingertips.

“Since the cops couldn’t ID him, they stuck him in a minimum security cell and he broke out in like five seconds! And like... like...”

“Go on,” urged Kitty, intrigued. Even Hank’s ears perked up.

“Well, I’m just sayin’, if you’re dealin’ with a shady character, he can do tons of far out things to throw you off. On tonight’s menu, only one person fits the bill and that’s the dude Wolvie was all going cra-”

“Fantomex,” Scott moaned, startling everyone. The IV and status monitors clanked to the hard ground when he rolled about, tubes and wires tangling him up. With Hank’s help, he freed himself from the medicinal forest and tested out his still painful arm. Wondrous alien technology patched him up well, but even the best of medicine didn’t work miracles. He’d have to lay off on his left side for the next few days.

Ha, like that was happening.

Both Kitty and Hank shrugged at each other, silently asking “Fantomex? What does Fantomex have to do with anything? Again?”

The fearless leader of the X-Men read the gestures and filled in the blanks “You were all at Harry’s when he stopped in for sanctuary. He had a sports bag on his shoulder, same color as the strap there.”

The painkillers dulled him a hair, his speech and movements lacking. Though he took pleasure in unraveling mysteries, a piece of nagging news fluttered in his mind. “Asteroid M,” he whispered, the last moments of his consciousness returning, “Magneto... this is all Magneto’s work!”

“Yeah,” Jubilee drawled, “About that. You see, we already kinda got the Magneto being back part. He sorta took off the mansion’s roof.”

The heart monitor still attached to him jumped twenty beats per minute. “Where is the team? Why aren’t you going after him?”

“Hold on, turbo. Right now, we’re the only ones here. Elf boy and Hayseed senior are drivin’ to Warren’s to drop off the students. Everyone is either AWOL or captured by Magneto, which reminds me, where’s Wolvie?”

“Jean was looking for him when I left,” said Kitty, “I needed to return with Scott and make sure he got medical attention.”

Like he’d never left, Hank motioned for Cyclops to lay back down. “Doctor’s orders, Mr. Summers. With that concussion and mended bone, you’re not fit to leave on another escapade.”

“There’s no choice, Hank!”

“Yes there is, Scott. Trust that Kurt and Sam will not fail.”

The medlab elevator dinged, drawing four sets of eyes to it. Out came a grimacing Forge, blaster in hand and arm around his stomach. Kitty was there before he collapsed.

“Rogue,” he wheezed, “Mystique... overloaded Cerebra... destroyed... went to Manhattan.”

With all the shit that already hit the fan, the four here extrapolated much from those broken words.

Of course, assumptions were made. Everyone piled into the Mark 3.

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

“Look around you, old man.”

Groggily, the Professor moaned and opened his eyes.

“Look, damn it.”

The quiet voice belonged to Tessa but he couldn’t crane his neck around to see her. “Wh-”

“Quiet. I said look.”

The dreamy mist dissipated and returned his focus a bit at a time. Smelled smoke. Felt cold. Saw darkness. Heard unintelligible cries. Sensed nothing. “Where am I?”

“Your hell.”

Vision cleared. Magnus hovered over a ledge while he shouted his old idioms. A familiar swirling red light broke the dark monotony. The repeated unintelligible cries sharpened into calls for mutant supremacy.

“Your dream is about to be reduced to nothing,” spat Tessa, “I just wanted you to know before the fact.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate you. I hate how you took my life and made it yours. I hate your two-faced methods and your cover of benevolence. This is my revenge.”

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat. To his sides, Paige and Alex remained unconscious. “Why didn’t you tell me, Tessa? I could’ve-”

“You could have done many things, but you did not. You did what you did and I will do what I will do. If I could just kill you now and have my revenge, I would do so, but I cannot, not while your dream still persists. I have to exterminate all that is you, and to do so, I must strike at your X-Men, your institution, and your species.

“Sit back, Professor. Experience the symphony I have concocted for you, one inspired by my ruined existence and made possible by your lessons. Look, the first movement comes to an end and the second begins with a bang...”

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

Five fighter jets, deployed by a supposed S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, streaked toward Manhattan. Their arsenal: a heap of the newest, laser guided bombs specifically designed to combat the Master of Magnetism. Their order: annihilate the mutant uprising at whatever cost.

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

Storm, bound and battered, felt her power return--Lorna’s vicious choking earlier had damaged the collar.

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

Gambit, riding a newly acquired sports bike, flung a charged card into a wall and barreled through the hole, bypassing crowds and traffic and straight into the Empire State Building.

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

Warren and Sam left Kurt with the students and flew toward Magneto.

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

Rachel and X’ian screamed as one into the night sky, but no one heeded their call.

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

Esme peeked down at the crowds and felt the awesome power and prestige surge through her. Her grip around her lethal vial of Kick tightened.

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

Yvette, mini dv recorder in hand, ducked into a dark alley and filmed the budding drama, all the while hoping for a glimpse of her handsome stranger.

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

Vargas clipped Mystique in the side with his sword, but before he could strike the killing blow, demons jumped onto his back.

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

Humans found themselves corralled into mutant controlled buildings, there to await cruel torture games and senseless executions.

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

Rogue threw herself against Magneto’s force field.

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

Mutants all around Manhattan cheered and slaughtered, cries of “Remember Genosha!” filling the streets. For a moment, they were free and no consequences held them down.

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

The last remaining Mark 3 lost navigation systems and plowed onto Canal Street.

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

Logan, carrying Jean’s body, opened the airlock facing the sun. “He and she,” he murmured, “He and she in a blaze of glory.”

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

The Stepford sisters tried to contact their missing sibling but to no avail.

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

Demons burst forth from Battery Park and challenged frenzied mutants.

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

Marissa strained, her contractions growing stronger by the minute.

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

Lorna laughed and shot up. Her heart raced toward unacceptable speeds, but the negative emotions reached an ecstatic height.

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

Bobby tried to escape but a loud crack filled the air smashing an impressive hole through his icy chest. He gaped at Fantomex before tethering over the Empire State Building’s railing.

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

The Otherworld contingent--Doctor Strange, Magik, Brian, and Meggan--appeared before a meditating Betsy and tackled her.

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

Emma rummaged through her office drawer. Behind the quarterly reports and in front of the catalogs lay her pistol. Never could tell when a firearm would be useful, and given how Manhattan turned into slaughter fest, she needed every advantage. Sooner or later, one of the many hazards would meander their way into her skyscraper and things would get physical. Belasco and Magneto--quite a tandem to deal with. Made her wish for simpler times, like when her greatest threat was another one of Jubilee’s childish pranks.

Suddenly, a ginormous boom shook the ground, tipping over expensive desk ornaments, a bottle of vodka, and a curious polar bear plush doll named Frosty Bear which made its cozy home at the top of a bookcase.

Emma peeled the blinds open in time to see high speed Sam Guthrie toss one of Belasco’s winged denomnesses into her office. What a naughty boy! The senior Guthrie didn’t even have the manners to stop, instead jetting on his way like nothing happened. Off in the distance, a blur which resembled Rogue collided into a building across from the Empire State Building, across from Magneto and... and... Storm?

Back to matter at hand: a well-endowed female projectile. Wide-eyed, Emma dove under her desk seconds before the thing smashed through the reinforced windows. An ominous crash, followed by an equally ominous swishing of water, signaled the grim end of Emma’s beloved aquarium. Peeking out from under her cover, the blonde observed the resilient demon--sopping wet, glass fragments puncturing her flesh, fish floundering under her weight, and blood just gushing everywhere--pick herself up and menacingly growl.

She stopped, sniffed the air, and hissed at the blonde. “You... you have the stench of Master’s wayward flayer about you...”

“And you broke my aquarium.”

Two nine millimeter bullets lodged themselves in the its eyes.

“No one fucks with the fish.”

Another shot struck its forehead before it fell over dead. Walking to the shards of her pride and joy, Emma sighed and tucked away her pistol.

“Poor babies,” she cooed at her floundering pets. Carefully, she cupped two of the survivors, rushed to the bar, and put them in a mug of water. “Stay,” she commanded.

Not a moment later, shrieks filled the air, drawn to this place by the scent of a fallen sister. Only the most powerful psychic suggestion could ward off--one, two, four, twelve, fuck it, stopped counting after twenty--sentient monsters.

*Betsy?*

An unexpected, harried yelp surprised the blonde. *Help!*

Brief glimpses of Betsy being attacked and smothered appeared in Emma’s mind. Out the door she went and into the fire escape. With little regard for life or limb, Emma jumped over the railing and free fell seventy stories. About halfway down, her skin acquired the diamond glimmer. On landing, she caved in the cement under her. Dust ploomed around her in the shape of a mushroom.

“Well,” she mumbled to herself, “That was certainly an exercise in stupidity.”

Even diamond could break. Didn’t need to find out the limits of her body now. What in the world possessed her to drop everything, ignore the impending danger, and plunge down here like this? Granted the jump looked and felt cool, but it was hardly constructive. The express elevators would’ve gotten her downstairs in no time and it’s not like Betsy was helpless. Doing this shaved seconds off her decent time and cut off Betsy from mental contact--not smart.

Probably could’ve exacerbated the situation.

What’s done was done. Emma hurried out the fire escape door and prepared for the worst. What she got looked more like a family reunion.

Brian had his sister in a headlock. Meggan helped her husband by holding Betsy’s legs in place. Strange and Amanda chanted some mystical incantation. Meanwhile, Betsy tried to say something but her brother’s thick arm muted her.

“Ahem.”

The action stopped. All eyes settled on Emma.

“Why are you groping Elisabeth?”

“She’s the one who brought Belasco here!” struggled Brian.

Betsy’s eyes swelled, indignation quite clear unlike her words. “Mrrm hmph vrrm, grckr!”

“Where’s the pendant?!” Amanda yelled, stopping her magic mumbo jumbo.

“Rver gwrr zo phem!”

“I assure everyone in this room, neither Elisabeth nor myself have any idea what pendant you’re talking about.”

Doctor Strange ended his chanting. “Ms. Frost tells the truth. I sense none of the large expenditure of power it would take to operate the pendant.”

Looking down at his sister, Brian broke into a cold sweat. “Bloody hell.” Betsy was going to wallop him good for this one.

Got his wish sooner than later.

Even though he still grappled Betsy, Meggan, after hearing the analysis, let go. Her legs freed, Betsy thwacked her brother with the tip of her foot. The pain doubled when she bit down, enough to leave a mark but not quite enough to draw blood. Reacting, Brian pulled on Betsy’s hair with his free hand and tried to wrestle his chew toy of an arm away.

The scrap would’ve been comical if a tinge of maliciousness didn’t taint it.

Of all people, Emma was the one to break up the twins. “Elisabeth,” she chided while pulling the two apart, “it was a misunderstanding.”

Demonic eyes flared. “Next time someone assaults you, let’s see how calm you’re going to be!”

Those words, uttered not long ago during a similar circumstance with reversed roles--Emma remembered them well. Wrapped in the unfeeling, logical world of her secondary mutation, the blonde found the comment inappropriate, rash, and unconstructive. In fact, the rashness measured on the magnitude of her jumping seventy stories for a shortcut.

The overlapping error in judgment disturbed Emma. A trend seemed to be evolving, one she had no interest in letting continue.

“We’re sorry, Betsy,” Meggan said. “You left in the middle of your phone call, and when we found out one of the artifacts Amanda was safeguarding went missing, we kind of assumed the worst.”

Although she meant to calm her sister-in-law, the blonde fanned the flames of Betsy’s outrage.

“This is how you treat family?” shouted Betsy, her stare burning at the two other Braddocks. “You think so little of me? What did I ever do to deserve that kind of suspicion?! What are you?! Infallible gods?!”

Not like Brian would take the flak quietly. “Excuse me, but we never claimed perfection!”

“Yeah,” added Amanda, “We just wanted to help. I think you’ve gone far enough with this attitude.”

“No! If you thought that’s far enough, you haven’t even begun to see where I’m going! You don’t trust me--my own twin brother doesn’t trust me. And why? Because I leaving a fucking phone off the hook!”

Ever the peacemaker, Meggan put herself between the siblings. “We’re worr-”

“Shut up!” Betsy screamed. Though only Emma noticed, her shadow strained to come alive. “Worry about your own damned self, you arrogant whore!”

Brian didn’t take kindly to the insult and his voice dipped low. “Take that back, Betsy.”

“What? You think I imagined Meggan’s fling with Kurt? No Brian, I remember your drunken calls at three in the fucking morning, all crying about the girl of your dreams leaving you for a blue freak!”

Rock solid hands intercepted the punch from Brian and the slap from Betsy. “Enough,” declared Emma. “Our aggression is pointless and unfounded.” Betsy tried to tear her wrist away but the blonde didn’t budge. “Elisabeth, turn your telepathy inward and tell me if you find a mental suggestion not unlike the one you were broadcasting to protect this building.”

The wrong tumblers of ideas fell into place in Betsy’s mind. Anger at Brian shifted to anger at Emma, anger and good helping of betrayal. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Quick as lightning, Emma flipped Betsy to the ground and jammed a knee into her back. Shadows burst to life and futilely flicked at the blonde. “If you require an accusation, I am accusing you of being manipulated. Think, Elisabeth, ask yourself when you’ve felt this uncharacteristic brashness and when you’ve been free from it.”

She didn’t listen. She wriggled, she gnashed, she trashed, she roared, she swiped, but she didn’t listen. Her appendages wailed away like they were making progress, but they weren’t. They couldn’t grab a hold of diamond. In Emma’s estimation, someone here was on the verge of doing something they’d later regret--Betsy attacking her family, her family attacking her, Strange pulling a mystical rabbit out of the air, Magik doing likewise. She had to get Betsy to listen to reason, but that required her to turn back into flesh and resume their psychic bond. The anger afflicting everyone would overtake her again; the shadowy tendrils had a real chance at harming her.

But Emma trusted Betsy. It wasn’t an illogical trust: Betsy proved her worth. The risk versus reward wasn’t unreasonable: infighting did no good. On top of everything came a time constraint: demons closed in while Magneto loomed. And the cherry on the sundae? Emma could examine if her mental suggestion theory held any water.

She trusted Betsy, but when you needed something done right... ehhh... you know the saying.

Diamond softened and warmed. Inky tendrils stopped in their tracks and fluttered over silky flesh. Betsy stopped struggling. Emma’s impulsiveness reasserted itself, but the blonde held it check with her emotional discipline. Emma flooded their bond with manufactured serenity and passivity, lulling Betsy into a mesmerized state which was easy to control. Claws disappeared, rage evaporated, and the demon receded.

*Now that I have your undivided attention, I want you to listen to me.*

Caught in the dreamy state, Betsy nodded.

*Shield our minds. Only you and I exist.*

Brian’s shouts, Strange’s observations, Meggan’s sobs, and Amanda’s sneers paled away. Under Emma’s orders, Betsy trapped themselves in their bond, closing off every bit of stimulation besides their own.

Goodbye world, hello astral plane.

A barren, none descript room enclosed them. Betsy sat on the ground, her eyes far away, her mouth smiling, her mental form pliable like putty--an attractive canvas. In the supremely vulnerable state, Emma could’ve done anything to her and she wouldn’t know. The fact that she remained unchanged testified to Emma’s willpower and honor.

Not to mention her affections.

*Wake up, darling.*

With those three words, the blonde released Betsy from her hazy peace. If any other person waltzed about in Betsy’s mind like so, they would’ve found a nice psychic knife in their skull. Since the intruder was Emma, and a very concerned looking Emma at that, Betsy played nice.

Well, playing nice was easier without the blinding anger. *What happened?*

*Sinister plots, subtle ploys--someone is planting emphatic suggestions in us for their own gains.* A wiry grin chased some of the tension away. *How many times have you caught yourself excessively impulsive?*

Betsy immediately caught on to Emma’s train of thought. *Too many to count,* she sighed. *Everything from stealing the Blackbird to trying to tear Brian’s eyes out right now...*

*I’ve found my thoughts fractured and my emotions too raw, both for no good reasons. In truth, I just fell seventy stories to get on the ground faster to answer your cries. God, I didn’t even know what was wrong with you.*

*Should I feel flattered or alarmed at your protectiveness?*

The blonde snuck in a fleeting kiss and a comforting touch. *I’d say alarmingly flattered.* As quick as the gestures appeared, they disappeared, leaving Betsy to pout at the loss. *We have other concerns, though. Can you feel the psychic energies wearing at your shields?*

*Slightly. They’re faint, almost like ubiquitous background noise.* Further isolation of the energies drew sharp displeasure from Betsy. *I can’t believe I didn’t notice these insidious little waves. Curious too, they’re not so much suggestions as they are amplifiers for negative emotions. They’re emanating from a far away but I can’t pinpoint the origin.*

*Then whatever they are and from wherever, it’s undeniable someone is stirring up the ranks of sentient beings everywhere.*

*But what powerful telepath can do this so skillfully and massively?*

*Xavier.*

*Jean.*

*Stryfe.*

*That also means Cable.*

*Both of us, if we combined our powers.*

*Yet, how come I get the feeling that Magneto is involved with this in some way, shape, or form?*

*Because my perceptive ways have blessed you with my wisdom*

Betsy stomped on the floor and folded her arms. *I don’t know whether to laugh or scowl at you.*

Another soft kiss shut Betsy’s mouth. *I do enjoy our bantering and your sweet lips, but there’s things to do and no time to do them. We have to protect ourselves from this mental bombardment, stop Magneto, and prevent demons from flying in through my office.*

*Flying in through your office? Why would they do that?*

*Sam Guthrie did it, that’s all you need to know.*

*Sam?*

*Where you find one X-Man, you find them all.*

Innumerable swift, deft hands embraced the blonde, simulating her in all the right places at one time. And that was the advantage of mental communication: interaction was only limited by imagination. Right now, Betsy had a hell of an imagination. *I’d resent that if it wasn’t so true.*

*Ooo,* purred Emma, *Feisty little one. Are you always this excited?*

A soft breath grazed the nape of Emma’s neck. *When there’s a fight or...*

She trailed off, mischievousness sparkling about her.

*Or?*

Without warning, the astral connection closed down and deposited the women into the oppressive, besieged Manhattan. While they held an entire conversation, mere seconds passed in the physical world.
“Later,” Betsy winked.

Still shivering from the sexual taunting, Emma responded mentally. *Careful, Elisabeth. When I claim my revenge, it will be a long, excruciating process.*

“Looking forward to it.”

“Frost, what are you doing to my sister?!”

Back to the drama.

Although Betsy and Emma found the root of their aggression, that information hadn’t yet reached anyone else. Negative emotions burned away as strong as ever, and while most here weren’t known as hotheads, they weren’t peaceful either. Meggan, harkening back to an earlier, badly adjusted age, bawled like a baby; Amanda cawed like a harpy; Brian carried on like a drunkard. Only Stephen retained a semblance of tranquility, but one expected no less from the Sorcerer Supreme.

To combat this scene, the X-Women worked in a tandem. Extending her psychic shields, Betsy enveloped the unprotected; following behind, Emma wiped out the traces of mental manipulation.

The results were stark and immediate. Bodies returned to normal along with their minds--shouting and bickering died swiftly. The mix of puzzlement (“I remember what I was doing but I don’t remember why”) and uneasiness (“I said and did what?!”) put most of the Otherworld contingent on their mental heels.

Not Stephen though. Despite Emma and Betsy’s efforts, they couldn’t penetrate Doctor Strange’s mind. Peculiarly enough, the man even threw them a questioning look and some words. *If you wished to speak, you could have opened your mouths.*

*Sorry,* said Betsy as she escaped from under Emma’s clutches, *We puzzled out the cause behind the severe mood swings plaguing us and decided to do something about them. You haven’t had any sudden, destructive or depressive impulses have you?*

*Only ones to knock some good sense into my uncontrolled companions.*

*I guess you’re unaffected...*

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

The Phoenix lived. As the sun’s unforgiving rays burned away the last of her body, a brilliant power rose from her ashes. A new fire took Asteroid M, one impervious to meager restraints like reality. With all his pain taken away, Logan thought he was in heaven.

Not today, not yet.

Blackened carbon reformed into the shape of Jean. The Phoenix tore Logan’s charred flesh away to reveal untouched skin. Metals and rocks disentangled from their configurations and awaited orders.

Air filled space. Heat lessened. The cry of a proud avian echoed through the vast universe.

“Can you see, Logan?”

Last he remembered, the sun burned his eyes and ears to a crisp. Last he remembered, he was in space where people couldn’t hear you scream. His memories betrayed him again because he stood in a nebula surrounded by formless material, undying fires, and an ashen silhouette of Jean.

“I dunno. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Light burst from cracks in the silhouette. As more light shined through, more cracks appeared, finally crescendoing into a mighty detonation. Clothed in her Dark Phoenix outfit, Jean stepped through into her new existence as the Phoenix, the physical expression of a cosmic force. Energies cascaded from her, wrapped her in an angelic glow to compliment the blazing bird engulfing the place Asteroid M should’ve been.

She looked like Jean, even smelled like Jean, but at the same time, she wasn’t Jean.

“What did you do?” asked Logan. “I was on fire and then... then...”

The red head spoke but her lips didn’t move. “I did nothing,” she replied. “You did it. You released the Phoenix, and now, the Phoenix is ready to save us.” The quicksilver-like metal molded itself. Rock congregated. “Total kinetic control of matter through the subatomic level--I’m building a transport to guide us back to earth. The sun will push us and give us the propulsion we need.”

“Wait, Jean-”

“I have no time, Logan. I had to die to come back, and I don’t know how long they’ll let me stay.”

“Who’s they?”

“Even the Phoenix must answer to others.”

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

Kitty phased into an abandoned fast food restaurant to get away from her pursuers. She’d lost sight of everyone else--Scott, Hank, Forge, and Jubilee--long ago, and the chance of finding them in this climate wasn’t high. Of course, Scott didn’t help matters by charging to the Empire State Building like no one’s business. Wouldn’t have been a problem if legions of mutants didn’t stand in the way. What kind of plan was “fight through them” anyway? Kitty blamed the Mark 3 for crashing itself and giving an opportunity to Scott to muck even more things up.

Honestly, seemed like someone inputted the wrong protocols into the flight plan. Kitty wasn’t pointing fingers, but only Scott touched the controls. What? Not like anyone could HACK into the highly encrpted system. Hell, a person needed a computer of brain to even consider the feat, and after that, said person needed security clearances and a lifetime of experience to execute a remote self-destruct command. So, this had to be one person’s fault.

“Nice going, Scott,” she mumbled.

The gang of mutants chasing her rambled by this small Mexican eatery. After seeing them round the corner, Kitty sighed: one less thing to worry about. However, while her hiding place seemed abandoned, it also resembled a war zone. Bodies of a few mutants and plenty humans sprawled over counters, tables, floors, and chairs. Blood mixed together with unfinished food. And the most damning sight? An open cash register flanked by the corpses of two people who appeared to be fighting over money before death claimed them.

How many lives were ruined in this place alone? Each one dead had a story, and Kitty wondered how many of those stories wouldn’t have a happy ending.

God, all her life she’d fought for these people. She’d faced certain death so others wouldn’t, so they’d live in blissful peace. Was this how they spent the days she bought with her sweat, blood, and tears? Did Peter’s sacrifice mean nothing to these people? Not everyone could be a superhero, but was being a decent person too much to ask?

The bitter bile in her throat sickened her. She needed to get out of here, away from the stabbed, strangled, and shot bodies, away from the lone ringing cell phone lying next to a man sporting a bullet hole in his head.

Dejected, Kitty phased through the walls and into another store. A gift shop this one and it was no longer in the spirit of giving. Broken windows and empty racks destroyed the festive atmosphere even as a small music box played “Jingle Bell Rock.”

At least no one died in here.

Suddenly, a baby’s faint cries, accompanied by hoarse screams and cruel, juvenile needling, filled the air. Kitty’s sharp hearing pinpointed the sounds in a general direction, and calling on her physical and emotional reserves, she took off. Without regard for life or limb, she phased through walls and building, using the disturbance as her guide.

The trail ended in a small convenience store.

Inside stood the gang of mutants who harassed her. The five strong faction surrounded a sweaty woman and her messy, blonde haired newborn. One of them severed the umbilical cord with a pilfered knife while another snatched the baby from the mother’s weak grasp. Twirl and whirl went the child carrying mutant while the others held the desperate mother in check.

Declarations of “That’s my child!” and “Give her back to me!” aggravated one of the more violent individuals. His fist turned gray like stone a moment before he clubbed the woman in the back of the head--she dropped like a sack of beans. The violent hit jarred Kitty from her dazed state.

She grabbed a fire extinguisher and clobbered the one holding the baby. The well-aimed, well-timed blow resulted in the mutant falling over unconscious and cushioning the crying newborn. A puff of white foam blinded the four others. Three more thunder crack strikes left one of the gang remaining, the one who hit the woman. As the fire retardant cleared away, Kitty lobbed the red canister at the man. On reflex, he caught the projectile in his arms. Distracted, he failed to see the impressive kick which propelled him into the beverage fridge’s glass pane.

When the last of the glass shards clanked to the linoleum floor, only the baby’s crying could be heard. Kitty bent down to where the young mother lay. Her eyes were open wide, still like her body. She had no breath. A touch of her wrist revealed the obvious: no pulse.

The blonde baby girl cried louder.

Here ends the story of Marissa Ackerman.

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

They peeled off: Warren dove after Bobby and Sam went for Ororo. They had no strategy, only a drive to succeed. Determination alone saw them through countless dog days, and by the looks of things, this would be one of the doggiest in recent memory. Good thing Warren rated among the most determined of people, and Sam? He wasn’t shabby in that department himself.

Too bad. In their zeal, they lost of sight who exactly they were dealing with.

Warren swooped in and saved Bobby from shattering into a million pieces. Though alive, the immense hole in his chest courtesy of Fantomex ruined his day. As shown by Emma, he wouldn’t die, but he did hurt a whole lot.

His chest might’ve needed help, but his mouth ran just fine.

“Whew, flyboy, am I glad to see you!”

“How’s Paige?”

“What? No ‘How you doin’ Bobby?’ I just got shot!”

“If you can talk, then you’re fine. I’d be worried if you shut-”

Warren stiffened. A spring of blood erupted from his chest, and all Bobby could see before they corkscrewed out of control was a sniper rifle totting Fantomex leaning over the edge of Empire State Building, smoke ascending from his barrel. A colorful insult died on the tip of Bobby’s tongue when the two airborne X-Men tumbled through a window, two file cabinets, and an office Christmas tree.

Sam fared much better. Magneto was about to impale Storm on a flagpole when she summoned a holy hell of a typhoon. The gale winds threatened to upend everyone caught in its path, and that included the captured X-Men. Lining himself up, Sam braved the tempest, his purpose to round up the teammates trapped in ice. He crashed into Bishop, Paige, and Alex, but wasn’t the Professor in between Paige and Alex? He glanced back to see Tessa struggling to haul Charles over to the fire escape door.

Like any good southern boy, he assumed the woman had the best of intentions.

Well, not to mention he probably couldn’t carry the Professor as well. Three people tested the limits of his strength and mutant powers. Four would be impossible.

Bolts of lightning sought Toad and electrocuted him for his previous transgression. The winds toppled Fantomex and Esme, the two unprotected by magnetic shields. Even with said shields, Magneto, teeth gritted and forehead creased, strained against the weather witch’s best shot.

Lorna yawned. Her body built up such a wealth of power that hurricane force gales failed to move her. Powered by the negative emotions of millions and the effects of Kick, Lorna floated up to Ororo.

Pretty. White hair spread out in all directions. Dark skin glistened in rain water. Ample breasts heaved against her wet clothes. Eyes closed like she had no cares about tomorrow. Guttural groans showed her effort. Face tilted to the clouds. Pretty in a primal fashion and Lorna liked Ororo this way.

Lorna stuck her tongue in Ororo’s opened mouth and formed an airtight seal with her lips. A surprised squeal indicated Storm’s lapse in concentration. The rains slowed, the winds stopped, and Toad plunked onto the cement looking much like a lump of coal. Her still bound hands batted about, but besides making wet slapping noises, they did nothing.

Stunning Ororo, Lorna broke the kiss. “Pretty,” Polaris smiled, “Too bad you’re not on Papa’s side.”

After being flung into a building by Magneto earlier, Rogue dusted herself off and prepared to have another go at him. Not even halfway to her feet, Storm, punched by Lorna, plowed into her and knocked her back on her butt.

Meanwhile, Magneto noticed his missing hostages.

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

The plan? Simple.

Meggan and Amanda stayed behind to protect people from Belasco’s forces. Emma, Betsy, Brian, and Stephen would fly (with the Doctor’s magic) to the Empire State Building, rescue the X-Men, and “cowboy up” to the Otherworld invasion. They reasoned that between Emma’s diamond body, Betsy’s telepathy, and the combined mystical powers of Brian and Strange, they’d be able to neutralize Magneto. Great plan, but great plans had a penchant for falling apart.

First sign of trouble came when they left Frost Tower. Suspended in a globe of magic, their current height--eight stories and rising--afforded them a clear view of Manhattan’s shoreline parks. Over toward a corner, was that South or North Cove? Whatever Cove, demons fell back like chastised children, all because of one man.

“Vargas.”

Everyone stared at a suddenly agitated Betsy.

“Sis, that’s one nasty twitch you’ve got there.”

Emma looked where Betsy locked her eyes. Indeed Vargas carved fists full of death into Belasco’s army. He seemed intent on a target too, intent on pursuing Mystique. Emma’s expression obtained a bit of Betsy’s when she saw the blue skinned mutant.

Wrath, and not amplified by Lorna’s powers, consumed Betsy. Not often one got to face their killer, but here he was, larger than life and unwittingly mocking her. Emma would’ve tried to act as the sensible one if her own temper hadn’t been invoked. So where did things stand? Well, both women bombarded each other with self-propagating, vengeful thoughts. Buoyed by part White Queen fury, part demonic spawn frenzy, both women seethed beyond containable levels.

They turned their heads and shared a measured gaze.

*Didn’t you say you’d put Vargas’ brain into a blender if you ever saw him?*

*Yes,* confirmed Emma. *Didn’t you want to tear the face off of any person who harmed me?*

*Yes.*

*Mystique and Vargas are dangerous individuals.*

*Sure.*

*We’d be doing the X-Men and the world a favor by taking advantage of the situation.*

*No doubt.*

*This is purely for the benefit of mutant-human coexistence.*

*Wouldn’t consider it anything but.*

Betsy shot through the air, flipping and somersaulting with eerie ease. Down she half-soared, half-glided, down ten stories and she landed with neither sound nor any other fanfare. Before her long, purple hair even settled, she sprinted off, slipping through overturned cars, bent parking meters, mutants, and demons like a well-honed blade.

Two pairs of eyes peered over the edge then at the blonde woman.

As she transmuted into diamond, Emma smiled and waved. She leaned back and plummeted to the streets much quicker than Betsy. When she met the ground, a loud crash and a fog of debris shrouded the area. The dust settled, besides the miniature crater, no sign of Emma remained.

“We missed something, Stephen.”

“Perhaps their departure would be for the best.”

Confused, the Otherworld’s ruler tilted his head. “Don’t they have the experience fighting Magneto?”

Strange muttered choice words including “malum,” “exsisto,” and “teneo.” When he stopped, black auras dotted demons everywhere, most of them concentrated at Battery Park. One out of place aura made its home on the Empire State Building, one Stephen made sure to point at.

“If we were dealing with Magneto, then yes, we would require them, but we’re not.”

The one directing the mutant carnage, the one holding the X-Men hostage, the one who claimed to be the Master of Magnetism glowed in an unholy black.

Brian rubbed his eyes and did a double take. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Magic is a powerful weapon, my friend, and Belasco is one of its most potent users. I wouldn’t put it past him.” Strange closed his billowing cape and gritted his teeth. “Come, we must help the X-Men. This battle has broached onto a metaphysical level and they’ll need our assistance.”

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

The butt of her pistol pulverized the ice around his body. Ample metal still pinned his limbs tight, stark reminders of the damp, biting chill. Tessa smashed his face against a window (effectively silencing him) and pressed cold steel up to his temple.

“A change of plans,” she said. “Factors beyond my control have put my masterpiece in jeopardy. It will never be completed now, but you will not see its dismal conclusion.”

Her thumb pulled the hammer back; a foreboding click sounded. “Goodbye Charles Francis Xavier. In your next life, may you learn to fight your own battles.”

“Remy don’t t’ink so, chere. Drop da gun.” To make his point, he tapped his makeshift staff--a discarded bar of rusted iron--against the back of her head.

If the pane of glass didn’t impede his lips’ movement, Charles would’ve spouted eternal gratitude from his mouth.

Talk about factors beyond control--Remy LeBeau wasn’t even suppose to be here. The Cajun was a wild card, unpredictable in the best of circumstances. Apparently, he was unpredictable enough to befuddle Vargas and get to Manhattan in record time. That unpredictability put Tessa in a quagmire of epic proportions.

According to her calculations, there existed a 45.7% chance of him disabling her before she could fire her gun. Within that percentage, a 14.2% probability of him using deadly force arose. If she followed his demand, she’d have a 37.1% chance to talk her way out of this standoff. Her other projections possessed too many flaws to be useful, thanks largely to Remy’s spontaneity.

“Said drop it. Dis be no joke.”

Sage rolled the dice. “What would you do to Charles if he betrayed you?”

She watched him through his reflection in the glass. The man claimed a virtuoso poker face, but even he had tells, tells like the slight exhale he let go when he heard her question. Alas, data on his mannerisms lacked and Tessa couldn’t extrapolate any conclusions.

“Do you have mercy for someone who uses children to achieve his goals?”

His body temperature and pulse jumped, hounded by the many Morlocks he helped obliterate. Tessa stimulated her tear ducts and waited till the first droplets rolled down her chin. “Tell me, Gambit, what should I do to a man who conditioned me to follow his dream? What should I do to the father figure who goaded me into the Hellfire Club as an underage sex slave?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, “but I know killin’ ‘im ain’t de answer. Leggo da gun n’ we can be like civil people, non?”

His sentences lengthened, proof of his flagging resolve. She’d changed his view of her from perpetrator to victim, and the perception shift decreased the likelihood of him beating her to the proverbial punch.

“Killing him is not the answer, but it is a step in the right direction.”

“Chere, der be bigger t’ings ta worry ‘bout. Remy ain’t a smart man, but he sure puttin’ a bullet in his head ain’t gonna make ya no friends.”

Gun shook and the tears rolled. Tessa inputted the optimal mix of self-loathing, fear, and remorse into her voice. “You are correct,” she whispered, the pistol falling from her unsure hand and clattering to the floor.

Remy sighed and drooped his shoulders, glad for the scenario to be over.

Before he got a chance to say one of his Cajun quips, Tessa yanked the bar from his hands and whacked him in the jaw.

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

X’ian sagged. She couldn’t breathe anymore. Her heart labored for one, maybe two, final beats. She felt, smelled, and saw--her brain hadn’t accepted her death yet. Long ago she’d lost her hold on Rachel and the red head stayed blissfully silent since then. Her morbid curiosity wondered if she’d outlast Rachel.

Out of the corner of her eye, a bright light appeared.

Well, so long world. It was a nice life while it lasted, full of ups and downs but mostly downs. Would miss the food the most, that and the Grey Goose vodka. She’d miss her little siblings and all the fun friends. As hard as the X-Men lifestyle was, she’d miss that too. Got to see many interesting, mind blowing things while in the company of the New Mutants.

The light drew closer.

Did people who suddenly died see the light too? What about those who got beheaded? How about blind people? Why a light? Why not a slow descending darkness?

Death was confusing, but it didn’t stop the light. X’ian read an article that said the light was brilliant and white. How come this light was fiery red and in the shape of an eagle? How come it moved from side to side? How come there looked to be a rock in the middle of it?

And how come Jean and Logan rode the rock?

A force lifted her to the sky, closer to the light, closer to Jean. Flames licked her face and warmed her like a childhood blanket. Heat cauterized the bleeding wounds, but something else stirred in that fire. Like all fires, it hurt, but unlike the rest, it didn’t kill. X’ian’s body sputtered and groaned, but the fire coaxed it to start again, to live again. Numbed nerves refired, the backlog of impulses crashing into her like a speeding truck. X’ian found the ability to scream.

From the sweat inducing pain came life, and from that life came energy revitalizing her near-dead tissue. Blood filled veins. Skin knitted itself. Her lurching stomach calmed. Fractured bones fused. Bruises faded.

X’ian collapsed onto... onto... a pair of soft arms?

Rachel, alive and well, smiled at her. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“How...”

“Mom did it,” she smiled, tipping her head over to Jean. “The Phoenix healed us.”

Shocked, X’ian managed an awe-struck “Thank you.”

Despite the miraculous save, Logan appeared displease, at least, more so than his usual self. His frown contrasted with Jean’s radiant form. It was like he’d lost someone dear or was about to.

“Are both of you ready?”

“Ready for what, Mom?”

Briefly, Jean’s calming image faltered. “Destiny’s end.”

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

Stumbling to her knees, the winged demoness watched the ruler of Limbo demolish the remains of her sisters. Loyalty pulled her up. Love for Master allowed her to continue. In light of Master, the considerable hole in her stomach didn’t seem important anymore; only doing what He required of her mattered.

The witch took her for dead. How wrong she’d be after a set of claws ripped out her voice box. Closer the demon edged, her weapons of choice extending from her left hand while her right held her innards in place. Say goodnight, righteous sorceress.

The electrical socket next to the demon fizzled before erupting in an unnatural surge that painfully froze its body. Amanda whipped around and split her assailant down the middle. Splattering to the shiny floor, the two halves revealed Meggan Braddock behind them.

“That’s the last one,” the blonde smiled. For good measure, Meggan cracked her knuckles (a move she emulated from Brian) and winked confidently. “I think Emma will be pleased!”

After Doctor Strange warded off the building to mental suggestion, working together resumed its typical ease. The two women were trying to shake off making complete asses of themselves: defeating a handful of Otherworld scum filled that order.

Amanda sheathed her sword. “Let’s go check on the people.”

“Of course!”

Peppy like a cheerleader, Meggan skipped, hopped, and glided to the elevator. She pressed the down button and made a big production of twiddling her thumbs.

“Meggan?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to cheer me up.”

The elevator dinged and they shuffled in. “But you’re sad,” the blonde pointed out, “As your friend, it’s my duty to make you feel better.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. When people say they’re fine, they’re always not. I learned that from watching Brian.”

Meggan wrapped an elusive innocent perception in a wise woman’s mind--maybe that’s why Amanda appreciated their friendship. Honest but sensitive, Meggan proved that bluntness could be expressed through kindness instead of negativity.

The brunette cracked a smile but her voice stayed heavy. “I’m just disappointed in myself, that’s all. It’s like... something so small and insignificant can so easily defeat us, it’s scary.”

“You can’t prepare for everything, Amanda. It’s through our defeats that we’re humbled and it’s through our humbleness that we find the drive to do better.”

Like she said, innocent perception tempered by wisdom. Few could break down complex, conflicting, and unseasonable doubt in two sentences.

“Meggan, you’re absolutely golden, you know that?”

“Yes,” she chirped, “Brian always tells me that!”

Ding.

A sea of eyes looked at them. Adults clutched children tighter while people armed themselves. Police officers drew guns, security personnel took out their batons, a few even held lamp stands like staffs.

“Easy,” said Amanda, her palms opened in a peaceful gesture, “Emma Frost told us to protect you. We’re just checking on everyone.”

A random camera from the back went click, flash.

One of the burly cops in the front asked, “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because we’re superheroes,” Meggan declared in her cheery voice, “Have any one of you been to England? Have you heard of Excalibur? Yup, the blonde girl was me and, well, Amanda here wasn’t on the team, but she was a good friend to us.”

Oy. “Think,” the brunette said to trigger happy cop, “Would evil demons or out of control mutants come up here and introduce themselves as superheroes?”

Ding. The elevator door tried to close but Amanda’s hand kept it from shutting.

Suitably placated, the bellicose refugees stood down. Barrages of questions took the place of violent threats. Everything from “Where’s Daddy?” to “Are we going to die?” flew at the women like hail. Little hands tugged at their clothes while desperate people tried to get a second of their attention. Hell, a perverted man even tried to grope Amanda, and that’s where she drew the line.

Summoning a flash of lightning, the crack of power sparking from her fingertips shushed most of the people. Yeah, some children mumbled “Cool” and “Can you do that again?” but by and large, Amanda had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Listen: Meggan and I know nothing about your loved ones. All we know is that Manhattan is in deep shit and we are trying to fix it. Now, I want all of you to stay put up here. As of the moment, we are the only people in this building, so if you see, I dunno, moving blobs or crazy mutants, come downstairs and get us.”

“Why aren’t you two staying with us?”

“There’s a riot outside and the ground floor is still the best place to get into the building.”

That and Amanda wanted to get away from the high strung tension of these people.

Ding. The elevator doors closed.

“Amanda, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I’ll apologize to them later,” she replied, “That is, if we live to see them later.”

“Wow, so pessimistic all of a sudden. Tell me, what can go wrong?”

Ding. As the elevator opened, a group of mutants, no longer drawn away by Betsy’s telepathic shroud, crashed a car through the front windows.

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

“There! Ooo, stop it there!”

The miracles of TiVo allowed the Stepford sisters to rewind, pause, and fast forward live television. About every channel save for Cartoon Network and Spice played endless footage of the newly dubbed “New York Nightmare.” One of the CNN cameras got close enough to Magneto before being destroyed, and in the background, Sophie thought she saw Esme.

“I told you, I saw her!”

“With Magneto?” Mindee asked.

Phoebe didn’t look pleased at the implication. “No, Esme wouldn’t do something like that.”

Celeste’s quiet voice came from the back of Warren’s living room. “She’s been acting weird.”

“Distant,” Sophie noted.

“Lonely,” added Mindee.

“Just plain weird,” said Celeste, finishing it off.

And Phoebe couldn’t believe her ears. “You three think our sister is... is...”

“Doing something bad?”

“Hurting people?”

“Betraying the school?”

The three Esme-suspicious Stepfords shrugged. “Probably,” they said in unison.

“How come I’m the last to know?!” demanded Phoebe.

“Because you were busy-”

“-chasing after Mr. Guthrie-”

“-and making kissy faces at him.”

“I did not make kissy faces!”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“DID NOT!”

Not in the mood to officiate, Kurt, remote clasped in his only good hand, switched off the TV. “Ladies, behave yourselves. Your sister is probably safe with Frau Lee, and I do not want to hear about inappropriate advances at your instructors.”

Four chastised girls said a “Yes Mr. Wagner” and resumed their argument telepathically. As Ms. Frost said, “Shutting your mouth does not mean ending the conversation.”

*Did too.*

*Did not did not did not DID NOT!*

Understandably, Sooraya and Kevin stayed far away from the bickering siblings. And Kurt? After those painkillers Warren gave him, he wanted to drop to the expensive carpet and sleep. Couldn’t though--as the only responsible adult here, he couldn’t afford to fall asleep and leave the students unsupervised.

Shuffling into the kitchen, he poured himself a icy flute (Where the hell were the regular glasses?) of mineral water and hope the sharp contrast would wake a few nerves. As he gulped his drink over the sink, his eagle eyes saw a handful of quickly approaching dots in the New York skyline. Not trusting his drugged up self, Kurt splashed the remaining water in his face and looked again.

Yup. Dots. Bigger dots now, exactly seven of them.

Who could they be? The Avengers? Sentinels?

The crystal flute slipped from his fingers and shattered in the sink.

“Mein Gott,” he mumbled, running back into the living room.

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

An unnatural rumble perked Mystique’s ears. No, this sound didn’t belong to Belasco, Magneto, or Vargas. It resembled something human, something only terrible homo sapiens could bring to the world.

One of the craftier demons tried to drop onto her from the tree above. She sidestepped, then after it landed, she flung it to the ever-present, sword-swinging Vargas. Great, another thousand times and he might get tired. Emphasis on might.

Rampant demons cushioned his approach, but sooner or later, the tactic of maneuvering Otherworld denizens between her and the whirling dervish would fail. Hey, he’d already clipped her once with that sword: didn’t need to do it another time.

The rumbling continued. Mystique hurdled a park bench and squeezed past another pack of fanged monsters. Their claws dug into her skin, but whatever they dished out had nothing on one of Vargas’ grazing blows. She didn’t look back; she didn’t stop. A battle cry drowned out the hungry roars, the verbal noises giving way to whispers of steel on skin.

Her lungs burned, her legs hurt, her head lightened, but the damned rumbling wouldn’t stop. Finally glancing into the sky, but of course keeping her strides going, Mystique saw a group of... of... something in the air. Aerodynamic contours suggested planes, but who they belonged to became the million dollar question. What other players did Irene predict would get into this game? What unthinkable twist hadn’t happened yet? What-

“-the hell?!”

Rock solid hands pulled her collar and dumped her on the cold grass. An unmovable weight settled onto her chest, preventing comfortable expiration. For a second, Mystique thought a demon had gotten her, but her captor looked a lot like an undeformed woman. An undeformed, attractive woman. An undeformed, attractive, diamond statue of a woman.

“Frost?”

“We meet again, Mystique.” An index finger and thumb wrapped snuggly around the metamorph’s neck. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you for handing me to McCoy.”

Was this lady insane? “Vargas is coming!”

“I think Psylocke has him occupied.”

Above the crunching of bone and general slaughter of Belasco’s fodder rang a kia. Mystique couldn’t see, but she guessed the resounding smack and resulting boom meant a certain Spaniard took a nasty spill.

The digits pinched tighter. Mystique tried to dislodge the arm but only hurt herself in the process.

“Why?” pressed Emma.

The White Queen had the advantage. Needed to go on a limb. Needed to trick her, maybe talk a way around her. Mystique called on her years of observation and bullshitting in hopes the experience would allow her an avenue of escape.

“Psylocke saved you,” she mustered through clenched teeth.

“She did.”

To quote Irene, young love would see her through. *Oh Irene,* she prayed, *Don’t fail me now.*

In her most confident and derisive tone, Mystique said, “It turned out for the best. She would have never admitted her love for you otherwise.”

More pressure closed around her neck, making her gag. “How did you know about us? Another one of Destiny’s diaries?”

“What else? That’s all the woman is to people like you: the sum of her words.”

“You and Irene Adler have a vested interest in my love life?” smirked Emma, “I find that hard to swallow.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Frost. Every one of us has a part to play in fate.”

“You shot me in the back. You pretended to be Isa Hayes to destroy my image. I’m suppose to believe you did that to keep this cosmic play going? I’m suppose to think you have nothing to do with this chaos in Manhattan?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve pushed you out the window of your damned office. Instead, I saved your life and led Psylocke to you. I’m not a friend of you X-Men, but I do care for my daughter enough to make alliances where I normally wouldn’t.”

“What makes you think I even believe a quarter of these words you’re feeding me?”

“You’re not taking my head off. Everyone else is stark raving mad for some reason, but you’re not affected. You’ve still got a trace of good sense left in you.”

Interested, Emma removed her hand from Mystique’s throat. “Do you know who is destabilizing and distorting thoughts?”

Destabilizing... destabilize... stabilize... stable... keep them stable, away from the poles. Only common link between stability and instability? Magneto. Keep them stable, away from the poles, away from the daughter. Magneto. Polaris. Something between them must’ve been clouding everyone’s judgment. No, not between them, Irene would’ve been clearer about something like that. Away from the daughter, away from Polaris.

The puzzle began to piece itself together.

Frost seemed unaffected by whatever machination at work. Mystique couldn’t find the Cajun anywhere. Psylocke had Vargas occupied. Rogue, stubborn and foolish Rogue, probably needed help because she got in over her head. And besides, didn’t Mystique have to keep them--whoever “them” were--away from the poles?

She’d done a good job bullshitting Frost, turning her from murderous to curious in record time. Maybe she could be of further use.

“Listen, get off of me and we can rehash old wounds later. You have a reputation to uphold and I have a daughter to help.”

Reputation? Emma refused to budge an inch. “What reputation are you referring to?”

“Your name, of course. If you save New York from destruction, everything I said as that nimrod doctor would be trumped by your heroics. I am not your enemy, Frost, not this time. Our partnership could be mutually beneficial.”

“But what about Psylocke?”

Christ, forgot about the Ice Queen’s new fuck buddy. “Irene wrote that she’ll face her killer and win,” lied Mystique, “That is Psylocke’s destiny.”

The diamond princess hauled Mystique to her feet. “I haven’t settled my score with you yet,” the blonde warned. “Don’t make me settle it early.”

Hope sprung eternal, didn’t it? Hot damn, the bitch bought it! “Have no fear, Frost. I wouldn’t betray a fellow lesbian, especially one I converted.”

In all honesty, if Emma wasn’t so coldly logical in her diamond body, she would’ve clubbed the mouthy mutant over the head with the nearest blunt object. However, since she was coldly logical at the moment, she realized that any response would delay action, and the last thing anyone needed was a delay. A delay meant wasted time, and wasted time spelled the difference between life and death.

Betsy faced Vargas. Destiny or no, she could use Emma’s assistance; however, Mystique’s observation about trumping enemies through heroics sounded too alluring to ignore. Here was her past, present, and future and a chance to reclaim it all. Emma looked around for a giant fight, one with an Asian woman and a hulking Antonio Banderas look-alike. Nope. Betsy was no longer in sight and Emma didn’t want to risk turning back into flesh (demons, Mystique, telepathic suggestions, oh my) to find her over their bond, so she had to make a snap decision.

Coldly logical and devoid of emotion, young love played no role in the snap decision process. Efficiency and sensibility reigned and Emma was unable to care. Which outcome would bring the greatest returns? Which act would be the path of least resistance? Which would be the quickest?

Snap.

The rumbling from moments ago almost deafened Mystique’s sensitive ears. Both women looked up at the disturbance.

Mischievousness glimmered in the red head’s smirk. “Something wicked this way comes.”

Emma rolled her eyes and pulled Mystique away from the park and toward the Empire State Building.

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

“ETA?”

“Thirty seconds and counting.”

“Unable to acquire target. Repeat, unable to acquire target. The magnetic disturbance is too great.”

“You better come up with a miracle. We’re at the point of no return.”

“Keep it together, soldiers. The fate of the mankind rests on your capable shoulders. You will succeed because you have no other choice.”

“Bombs armed.”

“Any sign of detection?”

“Negative.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“May God be with you.”

“Ten.”

“Target in sight! Target in sight! Switching to manual aim!”

“Five.”

“Shit, there’s tons of them!”

“Drop the payload now! Now damn it!”

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

Boom. Boom. Boom. From under the Christmas tree emerged Bobby. An unhealthy chunk of his forearm went missing thanks to the fall. He’d fix it, that and his chest, if two factors didn’t stop him: Warren hacking out blood and streams of fire rushing toward them. No place else to go, the one known as Iceman stretched his powers like he never had, creating a dome of ice around him and his friend.

An orange hue shined through the barrier, and each passing second the orange hue brightened. Bobby felt the ice barrier weaken, layers of cover destroyed by heat, debris, and more random explosions. The floor threatened to give way as cracks criss-crossed it. Diverting precious energy, Bobby filled the cracks and prayed it would hold.

If it didn’t? At least he’d die in a snowball. Kind of appropriate for someone named Iceman.

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

Atop a random skyscraper, Sam set his burdens down. “Those collars gotta come off.”

“You could say that again,” grumbled Bishop.

However, Paige had other ideas. “Git this ice offa us first! It’s freezin’!”

A rumble broke into a roar. In the sky, a suspiciously dangerous mass nose-dived straight at them. Instinct moved Sam’s stunned body and wrapped his arms around his three teammates. Digging deep into his mutant power repertoire, a large kinetic blast field erected around the four X-Men.

Boom, boom, boom.

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

From behind her came a roar. Caught unaware, Kitty held the blonde baby tighter and hoped whatever mutant had surprised her wouldn’t kill them in one stroke.

Then boom, boom, boom. The ground shook and the store came tumbling down. A slab of roof knocked the back of her head, breaking her attempt to phase. What a way to go, crushed by a building. Before death’s bony fingers closed around her, a familiar displacement washed over her. Felt like... like... teleportation. Like Amanda’s teleportation. Like Illyana’s teleportation.

Like the stepping disks native to Limbo.

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

“Everybody, gather around me!”

The students didn’t ask. Six pairs of arms threw themselves around Kurt as the boom, boom, boom, and BOOM boomed, the last one landing too close to Warren’s posh condo. Fractions of a second before the living space turned to ash, Nightcrawler teleported.

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

Magneto gasped. Deep within him, another being tried to break to the surface. At first, he thought it was Xorn, but this other consciousness was too reckless. Coughing, he noticed a speckle of blood fly through the air. He looked at his hands, and for a moment, even wrapped under his thick gauntlets, he knew they weren’t his.

“What is happening to me?”

Lorna drew her fist back to her side after punching Storm into Rogue. Pretty little thing just got her insides rearranged. She turned to her father who, for the first time in months, looked confused.

“Papa?”

Primal urges took over. Hunger. Death. His noble cause of mutant liberation disappeared, replaced by a desire to bring chaos to earth. He did the task well. Master would be proud.

Master? Magneto called no one master!

“Papa? Did anyone hurt you?”

This was where he belonged, ruling over his species and guiding them to glory. How could he ever lose sight of that ultimate goal? What plot did his enemies use to lay him low like this?

In the distance, he recognized two people, mostly because they floated in the air like him: Doctor Strange and Captain Britain. How or why Psylocke’s brother was here didn’t add up. What did add up was Strange waving his hands around and chanting and pointing, specifically pointing at Magneto himself. The typical hero types, always sticking their noses where they didn’t belong--Strange had to be at the cause of his problem.

Galvanized, Magneto pulled support girders from surrounding structures and hurled them at the two men. His concentration elsewhere, he didn’t notice the bombs falling until first boom, boom, booms uprooted scads of his followers, flinging them and their severed body parts into the air like ants in a tornado.

Good thing Lorna noticed. She generated an electro-magnetic force field and blocked the two bombs headed straight for them. Metals torn from too many sources enfolded the still falling payload and redirected them elsewhere, most notably toward the Hudson River and back at the fighter planes.

Oh, those humans will pay for trying to harm Papa.

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

Mystique kept a white knuckled grip on the life-saving, Oh-Shit bar. About twenty seconds ago, she thought Emma Grace Frost didn’t know how to drive. Right now, she revised that statement: Emma Grace Frost drove but she shouldn’t. The Mitsubishi Eclipse they’d “borrowed” drifted around a 14th Street corner at a peaceful seventy miles per hour. Tires smoked and deafening screeches filled the air as the car fishtailed, spun, and at the last possible moment, regained traction to speed along its merry way.

Flying experimental planes? No problem. Using Forge’s crackpot weapons? No sweat. Dodging Sentinels? Did that before breakfast. Nothing scared Mystique, nothing except for barreling down a crowded street in a flimsy box of sheet metal while weaving around obstacles like mutants, trucks, building pillars, newsstands, and parking meters...

All while relying on the White Queen’s dubious skills.

Yellow eyes dilated to unnatural extremes when the speedometer edged toward a hundred and ten.

On a freeway, that would’ve been fine. Mystique’s problem came when an unmoving, jackknifed semi loomed not half a block away. And Frost showed no signs of slowing. Incidentally, neither did Mystique’s pounding heart.

A hard left pressed the metamorph’s face into the passenger window. The car edged close to the semi’s underside, close enough for her to see the brand name of the spare tires. Interesting--didn’t know Goodyear made tires that big. By some miracle, the expected crash didn’t materialize.

That was the good news. The bad news?

Frost gunned the Eclipse onto the sidewalk, went airborne, plowed through one of Louis Vuitton’s meticulous displays, took out the leather bag section, busted down the front entrance, and skidded onto Broadway.

To the impressive driving, Mystique had one comment. “You’re a fucking maniac!”

An emotionless smile tweaked the diamond lips. “Relax,” said Emma, “I know what I’m doing.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“Well, you could get out if you want to.”

“While you’re going over a hundred?!”

“Never said you’d survive if you did.”

Boom, boom, boom. Clear road one second, craters and fires the next. Emma swerved around a flaming, falling lamppost. A toppled hotdog stand got in the way and demolished the Eclipse’s windshield. With a solid punch, Emma knocked the cracked glass out in time to see a jet of fire ploom at her.

Mystique let go of the Oh-Shit bar, covered, and ducked.

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

Boom, boom, BOOM rocked the Empire State Building’s windows, blowing them out like eardrums. Sage ignored the commotion and capitalized on a confused Gambit by landing a solid kick to his kidneys. Always resilient, the Cajun made sure the advantage didn’t last by pushing away the pain and head butting her. Till the explosion, they’d been struggling for the upper hand, him staying close to keep her away from the Professor and her staying even closer to prevent a kinetic attack.

They danced a ballet of grabs and holds. Hands on coat lapel meant forearms crashing onto wrists. A step between the legs resulted in a counter step to the side. The makeshift staff had a supporting role--the weapon was too long to strike but it served as an excellent defender.

Metal on bone hurt.

The Professor wasn’t stupid. As much as he could given his bound limbs, he wormed away, but Tessa wouldn’t let him put more than a yard of distance between himself and the fight. Every cheap shot she could land on him she did, which then forced Remy to defend him, which then exposed the Cajun to possible strikes.

The man was good. Fast. Strong. Smart. Sound technique. He had an eerie concentration, one that focused on many factors with equal scrutiny. Unlike many foes, he didn’t talk either, at least not until the fight was well in hand.

“Tessa, you must stop!”

Another boom, a secondary one not from the S.H.I.E.L.D. fighters she duped into bombing Manhattan. Ruptured gas line? Mutant power? No idea, but didn’t matter. Sage shoved her elbow into Gambit’s sternum and crumbled him with a boot to the knee.

“Stop this madness!”

He had the staff and swung it. She wretched the bar from him, but the precious moments lost let him recover and strike her stomach. An acceptable trade off if her next attack succeeded.

Tired of the Professor’s interjections, Tessa lanced the bar at him. With vigilance and speed, Remy deflected the projectile just enough so that it flipped end over end and knocked Charles silly instead of impaling him.

The two combatants stopped to appraise each other.

Remy huffed and puffed, sweat matting his hair and drizzling down his chin. Scuffs here and there littered his coat. Although Tessa didn’t breathe heavily, she did sweat and wince, and that was about the equivalent of an agonizing cry for another other person. They both had large bruises, the most evident one on the side of Remy’s face.

He wiped a river of perspiration from his eyes. “You pretty good, chere.”

She drew a pair of pistols.

“Dat be bad.”

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, boom. Boom? What the-

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

Betsy thought she did well. For a while, Vargas let her get her hits and sometimes even looked like he reeled on his heels. She thought her enhanced speed kept him off-balance and away from his sword. She thought her strength hurt him. She thought she was a worthy adversary.

She thought wrong.

The high of battle made her lose track of where she was. If she stopped to look, she would’ve noticed a lack of demons attacking either her or Vargas. She would’ve noticed Belasco’s aura close by. Her fist struck Vargas’ jaw but instead of budging, he snared her hand.

Wonder snuck into his voice. “What manner of beast are you? I killed you. Your fate is sealed...”

The psychic knife flared to life in her other hand. “Guess what? I got better.”

This was how the scene was suppose to go: Betsy would turn Vargas into a drooling vegetable, pry his sword from his clammy hands, shove it into his gut, do a little dance (maybe the Electric Slide or, God forbid, the Macarena), and rejoice.

Uhh, no. This was how the scene really went.

Two distinct varieties of pain crossed Betsy’s eyes. The first: him crushing her hand in his grasp. Given how the man could go toe-to-toe with Rogue and win, this simple attack hurt a whole lot. It was a hot pain, one which made itself known immediately and repeatedly, one that pulsed with a heart all its own. The second: him lodging his sword between her breasts. Now this pain, this was an icy, “death becomes you” pain, the one that didn’t make itself known because the body failed to realize it’s been skewered. After the iciness passed, her nerves disintegrated themselves in a concerted crescendo of desperate, fatal pain.

Vargas twisted the blade and ripped it out her side so it cleaved her already stilled heart in two.

Muted, Betsy gaped in horror. It couldn’t end like this, not again. For all her demonic traits and regained powers, she wasn’t enough to even make this an interesting fight. Like last time, he looked at her, shrugged, and tore her to pieces without breaking a sweat.

Adding insult to injury, he pushed a finger against her head and toppled her over. “You cannot escape your fate.”

Boom, boom, boom rocked the landscape as Betsy bounced against the ground. She couldn’t move--probably something important got severed--but she could see, hear, and feel. She saw Belasco emerge from the tower of flames, devilish grin on his face and not a speck of dirt on his golden clothing. Although dying howls inundated the air, he appeared unconcerned. Her inner demon salivated and strained for release. Bolstered by the dancing fires, her shadows took on lives of their own while darkness oozed out of her gaping wound like living blood.

And she heard laughter.

Belasco’s grating laughter. “You,” he pointed at Vargas, “You are the one who stems the tide of my minions.” Slitted eyes darted at Betsy’s mangled body. “You also defeated that parody of the Braddock child. I am impressed.”

*Emma, where are you?*

No answer. If only Emma was here, she could... she could...

Despite Belasco’s intimidating stare, despite the bombs going off, despite being surrounded by now encroaching demons, Vargas held true to his anti-“everything not homo sapiens” mantra. Front leg extended and back knee bent, his sword nestled in his steady hands and pointed at the sorcerer.

“I shall cleanse your kind from my world.”

Of the insults, bargaining, banter, questions, and declarations Belasco expected, he didn’t expect a self-confident threat, especially the one he heard. Most would’ve been cringing and blabbering, especially these weak willed mortals, but this mortal not only talked, he talked like one about to continue running roughshod over the best his hellish Otherworld had to offer.

That, Belasco sneered, wasn’t happening. The ones he destroyed were only shades; the others here were more intelligent, hearty, and fearsome than any amalgam of appendages dispatched thus far. Magic flinging imps, hypnotic succubae, elemental shamans, and gruesome flayers charged, the ground shaking like an earthquake hit.

Trees fell. Dust kicked up. Sidewalks cracked. Everything from shrill cries to bluish energies converged on Vargas, but he remained still, and soon, obscured by debris, blood, and bodies, he disappeared.

Before feet trampled Betsy to unrecognizable pieces, a crushing, disembodied force hauled her into the air over the stampeding horde. It rose her high enough to see the endless sea of demons moving into Manhattan streets, spreading as only a disease could, one avenue at a time. At the center of this cancer: the red portal and the lone, unidentifiable figure floating in it.

The ground came rushing back, but it stopped and left her inches from Belasco.

Betsy would’ve shuddered if she could--the demon in her jumped for joy at Master’s call.

“Stubborn,” the magnus grinned, “I remember you well, my pretty thing. You brought me endless days of entertainment with your staunch refusal to fight against your brother. I take great pride in knowing I broke such a powerful spirit as you. Look at you: a mortal wound hewed into your chest yet you hold the darkness away. Why? Because you know if you so much as lose a slip of your control, the pitiful semblance of your former existence will be wiped out by the basest needs of your new physical vessel.”

“Stubborn,” Belasco repeated, running his palm around the unmarred side of her curvaceous body.

“I like stubborn.”

A hand pulled her closer. “I do not need to know how you resisted my beckoning or regained your will. All I know is that you will be mine once again. You will bow to me and call me Master: it happened before and it will come to pass again. Perhaps you need a refresher on our splendid time together.”

The mental barriers and hazy memories surrounding her afterlife renewed themselves, every burn, every cut, every torturous moment. She remembered talking to Bishop, then a crushing hand wrenching her spirit away from heaven and straight into hell. No, it wasn’t hell because hell didn’t cover everything. Whatever Dante saw in his Inferno amounted to a vacation in Belasco’s realm.

Let’s just say that the only thing worse than an inescapable hell was an escapable one. Why? Because the prospect of escape gave a woman hope, and day in, day out, that hope died a slow, terrible death. No escape, then no hope to crush, but Belasco dangled the many exits before her and dared her to reach them. She failed, and the torture went on with a new ferocity each time. Her existence blurred into an unending tragedy, and piece by piece, her sanity escaped.

The Shadow King escaped, and then even her spirit wasn’t her own.

Betsy tried to brave the avalanche of her ghosts, but one too many excruciating remembrances slipped past her resolve, and from there, more followed. Her inner demon smashed into her consciousness and a numb, muted darkness swallowed her soul.

Inky tendrils she dammed burst forth. Wet rips rose above the commotion of war. Even so far away, she felt her body heal itself... feed itself...

Meat. Meat of demons.

*Emma!*

No answer. Desperate, afraid, and now healed, her voice returned.

Hunger. Hunger for destruction.

“EMMA!”

No answer. She wanted to cry, but another voice broke through.

“M... Mas... Master...”

Belasco laughed. From one of his many pouches, he produced a leash attached to an engraved hook. The sharp end lodged itself between Betsy’s shoulder blades; bony hands collapsed her to her knees.

“You belong to me.”

A final, painful tug of the leash extinguished the last embers of rebellion.

“Prove yourself worthy and you will keep your life.”

An inhuman roar called to the night. Bloodshot eyes peered about like a newborn’s watching the world for the first time. Fangs protruded and claws lengthened. Saliva pooled at the ground. Elisabeth Braddock receded, and in her place stood something less than human but more than demon.

“Take me to the ones you call X-Men.”

The obedient hound fumbled for traces of those its host befriended. It couldn’t find this Emma person, but it did sense the one called Brian.

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

Yvette turned her camcorder to the sky and caught a handful of jet fighters passing by.

Boom, boom, boom. The very core of New York City shook and Yvette dove behind a dumpster for cover. Tunnels of flames consuming all that was burnable surrounded both sides of the alley. The rush of flaming air and jaw shaking intensity painted an image of hell on earth in the woman’s mind. Besides the booms, nothing else made a bead of noise. Mutants, humans, and animals caught in the blast had no chance to scream. Falling debris disintegrated. The cement smoked.

Even when the towers of orange faded into smoldering bonfires, the New York night felt like a blistering train engine furnace.

“Hell on earth,” Yvette whispered to herself, “The fall of Manhattan.”

It sounded like a fine title for this documentary. Culled from the footage of flying superhumans, city wide mob rule, and now the U.S. government’s ruthless attempt to take control of the situation would be a gritty up-close view of this mayhem. The prospect of the next big shot stirred Yvette on out of her hiding place and into the streets.

The wavy haze of heat framed every detail.

Traffic signs, left in a gnarled, half-melted plight, swung in the wind. Bits of papers flew into the air like playful fireflies. The bombs’ aftermath pushed back the night as best it could. A rank stench of burning plastics, cloth, flesh, and refuse overpowered Yvette’s nose and forced her to shove a handkerchief in her face. Where seconds ago Broadway teamed with rioting mutants, it now only held grim reminders of the military’s might.

In the distance, a soft whine sounded. Set against this backdrop, the humming whine was from a life long ago, foreign but familiar. Yvette turned, and nestled beside fires and smoke were headlights. Her brain locked up, stunned someone would be alive let alone tearing through the devastation in a car.

Car. Street. Get outta the way. Outta the way!

Her brain bellowed for a response, but Yvette was too shocked. The car--a singed, deep purple Eclipse--swerved around her and skidded left onto 34th Street toward the Empire State Building.

Empire State Building! She swung the camera up and saw a laboring Magneto point. Using the zoom lens, she followed his line of sight to two other hovering, distraught men. They seemed determined to do something and Magneto seemed equally determined to do away with them.

Great shots. Great drama.

And the drama got even better when a small explosion lit up the seventieth floor. A mass of black in the shape of person expelled out of an already blown out window. She tried to film the descent, but no go.

Yvette lost the shot in the concrete skyline.

Then, out of the blue, a baby carrying brunette slipped out of thin air and plopped down not twenty feet away from her. If her camcorder didn’t catch the event, no one would’ve ever believed it, not even Yvette herself. Remembering the danger and possible mutants still roaming the streets, the CNN camerawoman gave the brunette a once over and bolted into another alley before she could be seen.

Hey, people popping out of nowhere had to be dangerous.

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

The boom, boom, boom stopped the fight. One of the mutants storming Frost Tower spoke for everyone. “What was that?”

Spikes of ice exploded from Amanda’s hands, their trajectory, velocity, and mass controlled by Meggan. Sharpened, these weapons could turn their victims into porcupines--dead porcupines. Lucky for the wayward mutants, Meggan and Amanda weren’t in their previous, more belligerent mindset. Spikes fattened into wads of bludgeoning goodness and thundered onto the mutants like oversized balls of hail.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, thud, thud, thud, thud. They went down just as the boom, boom, boom set off every fire alarm left operational.

“He did have a point,” Amanda allowed, “What WAS that?”

“Maybe Brian and the others defeated Magneto?”

“We can only-”

“Help! Oh God, please! Help!”

The heroines watched an older, white haired woman rush through the fire escape, her face red and tears in her eyes. “Please, you have to help us upstairs!”

Being the more compassionate one, Meggan put a reassuring hand on the woman’s back and bade her to catch her breath. “Tell me the situation, please?”

The beads of sweat covered her clothes and she couldn’t get a hold of her anxiety. “One of us took a cop’s gun and has a child hostage! He says he wants to go out but we’re afraid he’ll draw the mutants here!”

“Ok,” nodded Meggan, “Come with me and I’ll sort everything out. How’s that?”

“Can... can I just stay down here?”

“No, it’s not safe here. Amanda needs all the space she can get to cast her spells. Isn’t that right, Amanda?”

“Right,” the brunette answered, trying to bolster not only the old woman’s spirits but also her own, “I’ll be fine. Take your time.”

Taking the woman’s hand, the blonde ascended to the second floor, the promise of “I’ll be back real fast!” echoing through the lobby.

“No worries,” Amanda replied as she watched another handful of troublesome mutants mill outside Frost Tower.

“No worries at all.”

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

Kevin Ford, one of the students at the Xavier Institute, feared his mutation. One brush of skin on skin contact would rapidly decompose any living material, hence his codename, Wither. The Professor promised to get his power under control eventually, and while Ms. Frost had been making great progress with him, he wasn’t banking on being able to touch others any time soon. Take Rogue as an example: she’d been around the X-Men a long time, almost as long as he’d been alive and still no results. He had to give the X-Men credit for trying. An attempt to help him was more than anyone in the world gave him, including his parents.

So, Wither, Kevin Ford, continued to fear his mutation and loathed that one day, he’d turn his deadly power on those who accepted him for what he was. Someday, because fate was such an unkind bitch, he’d touch someone of the Xavier Institute and he’d be back on the streets again with no roof over his sorry head.

Someday came today.

Mr. Wagner teleported everyone. A repulsive darkness clenched his body and chilled him like death, but then it was over, and in the sickening darkness’ stead was a column of fire, the quickly approaching ground, and boom, boom, boom. A series of La Bou canopies interrupted their fall, so instead of cracking their skulls on the sidewalk after plummeting over fifteen stories, they cracked their skulls on the sidewalk after plummeting ten feet.

Only Kurt and Kevin didn’t crack their skulls on the sidewalk: they cracked their skulls on each other’s skulls. The infamous head butt headache put Kevin’s brain through the ringer, but Mr. Wagner’s piercing, bestial cries brought him back with a quickness.

The boy opened his eyes to double vision, double Stepford Cuckoos, double Sooraya, double decaying Kurt. His already thin face shriveled up on itself, his cheek bones rounded protrusions. Yellow eyes got bigger, or maybe it was the shrinking skin which made them appear bigger. Locks of hair blew away clumps at a time just as fast as the enamel wore away on his formerly sharp, pointy teeth.

“Oh.”

“My.”

̶ 0;Fucking.”

“God.”

Go Stepford sisters.

Between the destructive overture and billowing flames, Kevin Ford curled himself into a tiny ball and hoped for a stray object to fall from the sky and kill him. The painful screaming wouldn’t go away; the panicked words of his peers wouldn’t stop. They asked him things but he refused to answer, a part of him hoping that they’d take their frustrations out on him.

Then, as hope dimmed with Kurt’s dimming life, a handful of X-Men--Cyclops, Jubilee, Beast, and Forge--rounded the corner. Sophie Stepford saw them first.

“Oh, oh help! Help Mr. Summers!” she waved. “Mr. Wagner’s dying!”

Mr. Summers? Kevin gripped himself tighter and wished his own powers to work on himself.

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


- To be continued...