X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ Diamonds, Dames, and Deception ❯ The Climax ( Chapter 4 )

Chapter 4: The Climax


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This was it, the end: falling at terminal velocity with only the fatal impact to cushion her. Dejectedly, Tessa wondered if the landing would hurt. Would suck if it did, kind of like a last “fuck you” before life faded away. Even if she didn’t kill the Professor, she’d killed enough of his dream for her to feel satisfied. That was the purpose of this exercise, wasn’t it? To destroy Xavier’s dream? Years of quiet research, months of planning, a lifetime of connections, and a leap of faith into the supernatural culminated in this last dark symphony.

Mutants would rebel against the United States following this bombing. Because of his grudge, Belasco would hunt every X-Man and X-Men affiliate down. Forever and a day, this false Magneto would remind humans of the dangerous mutants, the ones who’d want them dead at all costs.

Vargas.

Dark Beast.

Belasco.

Fantomex.

Xavier.

Tessa played them like the high school marching band’s bass drum. Ha. Funny how she always thought of this endeavor as a musical task, but it was and she it’s conductor. Now, as her own final curtain closed, she examined her masterpiece and found it passable, passable enough to leave in the hands of time. It had already gone too far to stop.

Too far to stop--the story of her life, those four words.

Years ago between the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan, the symphony began with a whimper. A mere girl heard the whimpers of a doomed man, and despite her better judgment, investigated. Buried beneath rock shards was Charles Francis Xavier, mutant, soldier, millionaire, and for a while, father. Unlike the others who’d eventually be called X-Men, Tessa came to Charles with a firm grip on her powers. She didn’t know what she was, but the snowy, rocky no-place she called home sharpened her abilities all the same.

In those cold nights when they ventured toward civilization, he taught her things, things she would’ve never imagined possible. Their classroom consisted of low burning flames and uncomfortable rocks, but in Tessa’s opinion, he did his best teaching then hopped up on giddy enthusiasm and wise melancholy. She already knew much about shielding her thoughts and emotions, so he opened the world of telepathy to her--astral projections, psychic attacks, mental control.

Unknown to the everyone else, Tessa was his first student, the template on which the others would be modeled on. Charles said he’d bring her to America. He said he had a home for her. He said he’d find others like them and help them with their puzzling abilities. He said many things, but he only promised one: to protect her.

Through a series of events, she transferred Charles to a hospital in India. His body might’ve left, but many nights he chatted with her on the astral plane. He talked of his painful rehabilitation and the insurmountable obstacles facing her potential immigration to the United States. He talked about open fields and warm mansions. He talked about his dream, this urge to heal the inevitable wounds that’ll be caused by tension between humans and mutants. He talked and she listened, fascinated at this grand place he spoke of which was devoid of the hunger and fear surrounding her.

The lessons continued even when a band of roving mercenaries captured her, had their way with her, then sold her into a harem. Curious enough, Charles grew distant then. He seemed preoccupied, the biweekly visits degenerating into monthly ones. When he did visit her, Tessa was so starved for a friendly face that she hid her plight from him. She thought if he knew what happened, he’d be disgusted and she’d lose the only person keeping her sane.

Months passed. Using Charles’ axiom, she turned her hellish trial into an educational experience. By the time she killed off the last of her captors, she’d learned how to please and manipulate any man or woman. She learned how to read people without her telepathy. She learned how to exploit the weak and undercut the strong. As her dead mistress sank into the ornate bathtub filled with water and blood, Tessa swore to never be used again.

Then Charles called to her, said he had some old army friends who could pick her up and bring her to his new school if she wanted. Gee, sit in a small palace full of dead people or get away from this terrible life. Tough choice. She packed the bare essentials--a bag full of money--and left.

He stayed true to his word. He gave her a roof over her head, food to eat, lessons to learn, and a cause to fight for. “The X-Men,” he said, “will be a shining example of the good mutants can accomplish.” She was his first student and he deemed it appropriate to prepare her as the first X-Man..

“Or X-Woman,” he laughed.

But all was not well. She kept a small part of her mind secret from him and he interpreted the secret as darkness. No amount of cajoling, bribing, psychic probes, or other subterfuge shed light on the patch of unknown. Impressed, Charles backed off and imagined new possibilities for Tessa.

She was the perfect student: astute, disciplined, perceptive, quick. Mostly by herself, she harnessed her mutant powers--not much remained to be taught. This independence and their relationship made her a perfect candidate to be a spy. See, his encounter with his old friend, Magnus, conjured terrible premonitions, and for the first time, he realized that his dream couldn’t be accomplished by inner goodness and heart. Enemies--angry mutants, malevolent politicians, human bigots--didn’t play fair, and to combat the unfair playing field, he needed someone he could trust to best the evils he didn’t want the X-Men to fight.

No, Xavier didn’t believe in bloodshed, but he did believe in preparing for all challenges, challenges like Sebastian Shaw and the increasingly disturbing Hellfire Club. She was his first student, but Charles changed his mind about the first X-Man part.

“My X-Men are heroes. Tessa, you are a spy. Their lives will be defined by honor, yours by your capacity to betray.”

She loved him like the father she never had. She saw the determination in his eyes and wanted badly to see his dream through no matter the cost. Just days before her eighteenth birthday, handcuffs bound her wrists while a collar choked her neck. Her rigid discipline impressed the Hellfire Club’s masses, and in the ensuing fierce bidding war , Sebastian Shaw, with some far away coaxing from Xavier, claimed her.

Through the years, she served Shaw in many capacities from advisor to lover, but she never forgot her true purpose. No matter the debauchery or treachery, she observed and reported pertinent information to Xavier. Sometimes, getting information required bartering, and in the Hellfire Club, currency came in three kinds: money, sex, and power.

Tessa traded in sex, sex with her, sex with someone she owned, sex in public, sex in groups, sexual fetishes, sex in general, sex with generals. Her body wasn’t hers anymore, just another vehicle to achieve a desired end. She tried to ignore the emptiness building in her, but even her detached mind couldn’t refuse the truth: she tired of her traitorous task.

She yearned for an existence beyond the Hellfire Club, beyond Charles’ battles. The constant weights of spying, upholding her image, and assisting Sebastian wore on her bones. For so long she went without happiness, and for the days to come, none flowed her way. Had she been a weaker woman, perhaps she could’ve derived a drop of fulfillment from the nights of bondage, but her eidetic memory assured a place for her horrors, trauma, and purpose.

She couldn’t lose herself no matter how hard she tried. She entrenched herself too far in the Hellfire Club, and to up and leave would not only jeopardize Xavier but also herself. Her recourse? Endure the times and hope for better ones. Tessa wasn’t needy, but even her morale had a limit, even she needed to be assured of the light beyond the darkness.

Too far into Xavier’s dream, too far progressed into her powers to forget, too far into this seedy world to escape.

Too far to stop--the story of her life.

The story took a maddening turn when she tried to stop. Mastermind, the Dark Phoenix, and the Inner Circle were involved, and Tessa, scared out of her wits by the power Jean Grey wielded, warned Xavier about his prized student’s impending corruption at Mastermind’s hands. Only Xavier wasn’t there, not even a mental blip or an answering machine--the man she considered a father abandoned her.

That’s when the bulk of this symphony composed itself.

Abandoned by her mentor. Surrounded by her enemies. Crushed by the weight of her duties. As Emma Frost could attest to, months of torture and interrogation would break the toughest and most loyal of soldiers. Tessa braved the unwitting torture in increments of years. No light at the end of the tunnel. No hope for a better tomorrow. With Xavier absent, no one to guide her.

No reason to continue fighting for the Professor’s dream.

Tessa broke, and she was glad. The love and respect for her teacher soured into hate and resentment for her slaver. Yes, slaver. He treated her like the Hellfire Club treated their slaves. Slaves, to exist only for the master’s purposes. Slaves, to be present only when master willed it. Slaves, to serve without question. Tessa served without question and walked amongst the lions because Xavier told her so. And now, after the Dark Phoenix fractured the organization, after that Jean Grey clone Madelyne Pryor shook the ranks, Tessa sensed a chance to orchestrate her revenge against her master.

Before she came to the United States, she swore to never be used again. She broke her vow and look where it led her. No more. She repurposed herself, and while the drop of contentment eluded her, she didn’t loathe her continued breathing anymore. She didn’t get up every morning and ponder the advantages of slitting her own throat.

What a plus.

The revenge took shape. The more she plotted, the more she realized that killing Xavier wouldn’t be enough. His status in the mutant community ensured an immediate promotion to martyr should he die. The handful of new X-factions--New Mutants, X-Factor, X-Force--made him untouchable through the Hellfire Club, if only because of the potential retribution. Any successful strike against him would have to come at an opportune time and from many fronts.

Tessa got to work.

Contacts from the former (and now deceased) Senator Robert Kelly to street-level drug pushers filled her computer-like mind. She solidified her relationship with each person, never quite sure when they’d come in handy. Her analytical powers amassed an impressive fortune through the stock market. With the rise of the internet and the corresponding lax in network security, she planted backdoor entrances into many high-tech government projects, in particular the secretive Weapons Plus Project and S.H.I.E.L.D. Using her array of data gatherers, she created a profile for each enemy the X-Men faced and evaluated their effectiveness. Hacking into the mansion’s database, she stole information about team organization and lesser battles.

Knowing the Hellfire Club’s weaknesses (backward thinking and constant bickering), she extrapolated the organization’s impending demise and used its slow downfall to further her scheme by feeding information to a returned Charles Xavier. The perceived loyalty allowed him to focus on other agendas--Apocalypse, intergalactic conflicts, alternate dimensions--and leave her alone, content to have her monitor a crippled nemesis.

Armed with a vault of knowledge, Xavier’s faith, and a veritable fortune, Sage waited.

Selene, the immortal Black Queen of the Hellfire Club, provided an opportunity. During another one of her bids for supremacy, the part-time mystic full-time harlot ran afoul Amanda Sefton, or as the X-Men database called her, Magik, Ruler of Limbo. Further research revealed Limbo to be a nexus between the planes of earthly existence. Those who wished to cross from the “Otherworld” must pass through Limbo unless under extraordinary circumstances. Why? Because much of the Otherworld didn’t like the physical world. In fact, one of the Otherworld’s most notorious figures, Belasco, had quite a history with the X-Men, including but not limited to a near successful demonic assault on earth.

Tessa tapped the mercurial Selene to connect her with Belasco. After her tenth orgasm, the witch relented and summoned one of sorcerer’s messengers. What began as a fleeting dialogue snowballed into the plot before her.

Thirsty for revenge, Belasco pledged his services but made it known that he couldn’t act unless freed from his hell dimension. To free him, he needed an artifact safeguarded by Magik, and to get the artifact? That sent a deviously intrigued Selene, acting on Tessa’s behalf, to the doorstep of Dane Whitman, the Black Knight and trusted associate of the Otherworld’s forces of good.

Amazing what a willing smile could get a girl--Selene went from unknown visitor to bedroom buddy in under twenty minutes. After having her way, she drained his soul and reanimated the body with one of Belasco’s demonic minions. The demon wasn’t very smart and Selene had to put it in its place, but since then, he played the role of subversive to the hilt.

“You’re motivated,” Selene grinned at Tessa after completing her task, “When have you independently moved against the X-Men?”

“Today.”

The terse reply amused the Black Queen. Sensing a spectacular show in the wings, Selene perched herself in Tessa’s bed... literally. Twenty four hours a day she stayed in Tessa’s room, unabashedly prying for hints. Tessa being Tessa never tipped her hand, and by the second week, Selene acquired a new respect for the one she termed Sebastian’s concubine.

Yes, a new respect and a whole load of frustration.

Weeks ground into months. People whispered about the strange living arrangement. Both proud women carried on, Tessa refusing to sleep elsewhere and Selene refusing to leave. The mischievous teasing evolved, now a contest of will, restraint, and manipulation. Tessa worked on her magnum opus; Selene poked about with eyes and telepathy. Like a game of cat and mouse, they scurried around each other till one night, Selene caved.

Well, she didn’t exactly cave: she went stir crazy.

Let it be known that while Selene was immortal, she didn’t have the patience of one. As Tessa slipped into her bed, the Black Queen seized her by the shoulders. The question about the X-Men danced behind midnight dark eyes but she held it back. Pale moonlight painted Tessa’s milky white skin, highlighting her ample features against a background of nothingness. Shadows covered most of Selene’s face, showing just enough to reveal a feral fury.

They fucked through the night, the only demands the demands of their lust. It wasn’t happiness, it wasn’t even contentment, but an evening of no cares lifted both women’s spirits. She wouldn’t admit it, but Tessa needed a good, hard toss in the sack more than the skittishly bored Selene. When they finished, their bodies gravitated to opposite sides of the bed. Afraid to let the feeling go away, neither slept, instead they lay there, quiet, quiet to the point where breaths couldn’t be heard.

As the sun rose, Tessa broke the silence.

“I am leaving.”

“For good?”

“For good.”

Selene flipped her hair back. “Your plan better be worth it, Tessa. I didn’t waste months of my life to watch you pay some slob to pick off Xavier from two blocks away.”

“Thank you, Selene.”

The climax started with an old enemy, Elias Bogan, and a distressed cry to the Professor. Storm came to Tessa’s rescue, and like that, she integrated herself into the X-mansion. Slowly, the team as a collective entity placed their trust in her, spurred by a budding friendship with Storm. Xavier seemed glad to have Tessa back, but the same couldn’t be said for everyone else. She gauged the reactions she received and adjusted her plans.

Conclusion? Phoenix, Wolverine, White Queen, Gambit, and Rogue had to be removed. The rest were easily predictable based on personality models. She needed a catalyst to get everything going, and Vargas supplied it in the form Elisabeth Braddock’s corpse.

Psylocke’s death prompted important happenings. The Beast quit. The morale in Storm’s team worsened enough for them to return from hunting Destiny’s diaries. Belasco trapped Elisabeth’s departing soul and gave the false Black Knight an opportunity to go to Limbo and retrieve the needed artifact from Magik.

Coincidentally, the Weapons Plus Project completed its new base on the half destroy shell of Asteroid M. Unnoticed by even Xavier, Polaris endured a secondary mutation as well as mental instability. Hmph. Asteroid M. Polaris. Missing ingredient? Magneto, but the old sack of bones hid himself in the ruins of Genosha, a defeated shadow of his imposing self. If the real deal wouldn’t step up to the plate, she’d have to get creative.

No Magneto? No problem. With an ally like Belasco, one didn’t let small details like a missing supermutant get in the way of the best laid plans. A phone call to Selene did the trick. In the span of two days, Tessa obtained a vial of the new guy’s (Xorn’s) blood, sent it to the still mightily amused Black Queen to give to Belasco, and waited for the mystical possession to take hold.

Yes, mystical possession--this was the leap of faith into the supernatural. Though Tessa hadn’t quite bought into magic, she realized that the most successful attacks against the X-Men included technology and mysticism. Enemies like Apocalypse and Fitzroy integrated mutant powers, supernatural phenomena, and bleeding edge science into their plans. Just because she herself didn’t understand the methods behind magic didn’t mean she shouldn’t employ them.

And why Xorn? Being the X-Men’s newest addition, he needed an adjustment period during which most strange behavior would be ignored. Turning an unwitting mutant into the Master of Magnetism drifted into the strange category, so the best--and only--victim was Xorn. Anyone else and Tessa’s plans would’ve been discovered too soon.

The last thing she needed was an early discovery. That’s when she created the handle, Attrior, which, as anyone could readily see, was an anagram for “traitor.” Poetic, wasn’t it? A little obvious but poetic, just because Tessa noticed the X-Men always missed the obvious.

The plan moved faster.

She pulled the Dark Beast into the mix, both for his unrivaled genius and hate of Emma Frost. Through him, the mutant collars were purchased and the plan to eliminate the White Queen’s existence blossomed.

Using old contacts from the Hellfire Club’s drug trade, Tessa procured a new substance known as Kick. She sent some to the Dark Beast to enhance. When Lorna Dane crashed to her lowest (after Alex Summers rejected her affections), a dose of Kick mysteriously found its way to her room under the guise of heroine. Some telepathic adjustments later, Polaris gave it a shot and the rest was history.

Vargas, still alive and fuming over his defeat, jumped at the chance to get his revenge against Rogue. A call to Bella Donna, Gambit’s greedy ex-wife, claimed the woman’s cooperation with money. The plan? Lure Gambit to New Orleans (Bella Donna’s job), attack him (Vargas’ task), and when news got back to the mansion, Rogue and however many others would fly to his rescue.

To remove Wolverine and the Phoenix, the Weapons Plus Project and Fantomex came into play. Wolverine’s past always shrouded his better judgment, and Tessa counted on Fantomex to entice the Canadian and put him in grave danger, thereby prompting the Phoenix to rescue him. Being a money hording prick, Fantomex agreed to the task.

Tessa wound up her pawns and watched them chitter chatter away. Oh, she coordinated, but for the most part, she wanted each facet to bring an element of randomness to the plan, randomness that deflected suspicion from her. Also didn’t hurt to notice that supervillains did their best when they thought themselves to be working alone.

Seriously, how many times had those like Magneto and Arcade teamed up only to fall flat on their faces due to egos, incompetence, and betrayal? Too many times, and Tessa avoided the pitfall all together by keeping each faction mostly separated.

What followed... a masterpiece, truly a thing of beauty and one for the ages. Not everything went right, but in the span of days, ever since Psylocke’s return forced her to act, Tessa blew apart Xavier’s dream. Most of the X-Men met or were going to meet their demise soon--that’s where Belasco and his army came in. After she duped the S.H.I.E.L.D. planes into dropping bombs on downtown Manhattan, mutant-human relations would never ease. Emma Frost had been outed, and with her connection to the Xavier Institute, it was only a matter of time before the school itself was outed too. No, Charles Francis Xavier didn’t die, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Killing his dream, however, more than sufficed.

Others defined her life. Whether a harsh mistress or a deceptively benevolent master, she never lived for herself. She bled for others, but today, she bled for herself. She might not have lived life for herself, but she made damn well sure she’d die for herself.

So here she was, back to where she began: the end, thrown out of a window by one of Gambit’s exploding, kinetic cards. Oddly, free falling to her doom, Tessa felt the elusive fulfillment she yearned for but never attained. In one fraction of a second, her soul leapt at her success, at her happiness, at her contentment. It wasn’t much, but for a woman who’d never tasted such sweet sensations, it was a revelation beyond anything she’d experienced.

Forty feet to the ground. Tessa exhaled. Wouldn’t be long now. Smash, then blissful ignorance to the can of worms she’d opened. Her symphony ruined an entire species but seeing the look of shock and surprise on Xavier’s face was worth it.

She hit, but despite shock and breathlessness, she didn’t die. Dark eyes refocused themselves moments before another impact slightly jarred her vision.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sage.”

Emma Frost--recognized that arrogant voice anywhere. Wasn’t the Dark Beast suppose to occupy her? What was the diamond clad White Queen doing here in front of a windshield-less car and cradling Tessa like she’d just jumped four stories high and snatched her from a gory splat?

“You’re welcome,” Emma sniped, laying her down on the broken sidewalk. “While your computer of a brain is busying itself, I have a mad man to take care of.”

Oh, Tessa already digested everything. The blonde’s status meant both McCoy’s efforts and her own with the self-destruction of the X-Men’s planes hadn’t killed her. Emma’s survival suggested Psylocke’s, and with Psylocke usually came her twin brother, who unlike the X-Men actually knew what to do to overcome Belasco and this false Magneto. Emma disappeared into the Empire State Building, and for now, had no inkling of Tessa’s role in tonight’s chaos. Saved, and by all people, saved by the White Queen. Weirder things had happened before.

Gathering herself, Tessa shuffled over to the driver’s side of the burnt Eclipse. Another oddity: Mystique, hunched over in the passenger side, quivered like a junkie.

When the door opened, the scrunched up metamorph blurted, “God, you’re fucking insane, Frost.”

“Sorry, but I am not Emma Frost.”

The car peeled out and Mystique’s frantic yelp reverberated into the night.

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Americans were crazy.

Brian decided on the observation when a bunch of very American looking planes dropped the boom, boom, boom on down-freakin’-town Manhattan--why, Captain America would be spinning in his grave if he was dead... which he wasn’t, so he was just probably spinning, period. The civil servant who decided on the stupid act should be dragged out to the street, beaten with cinder blocks, and then shot in the crotch repeatedly until he (or she, in this politically correct society) died from it.

Strong sentiments, but he did have his reasons.

For starters, the bombs caught Brian at a bad time, which was to say, while battling a demon-cum-Magneto. Exorcising a rogue spirit was difficult to do when it flung large, and often sharp, projectiles at the exorcists. And the good Lorna Dane, instead of helping, joined the demon in the flinging of metal, altogether ruining Brian’s day even further. Add to that a sudden sense of foreboding prickling in the back of his mind and out came a dissatisfied ruler of everywhere not earth.

A bullet whizzed by mere centimeters from Brian’s head. Ah yes, and the ski masked marksman, couldn’t forget him, the coward and the weak link of the bunch.

The former Captain Britain thinned his lips. “Stephen, how long until you can drive the corrupted spirit out?”

“At this rate?” grunted the Sorcerer Supreme. Iron beams, wild debris, and pot shots kept him busy, each trying in their own little ways to hurt him. Mid-flight, he put on a burst of speed and lost some homing weapons around a corner. “Never.”

Magneto and Polaris had shields, but the weasely gunman didn’t. “Get the spell ready. I can buy you a few minutes.”

Like an angry god, Brian harkened back to his superheroing days, flew high into the sky, and dive-bombed onto the Empire State Building’s roof. Caught flatfooted by the immense shaking after contact, Fantomex stumbled to keep his balance, and during his stumbling, a screaming fast fist collided with his jaw.

A lesser man would’ve died.

Fantomex buckled, unconscious.

“Jump!” yelled Brian’s instincts, and jump he did, just in time to avoid iron rods burying themselves into the cement where he used to be. Despite his superhuman speed, the combined efforts of these two magnetism mutants made him feel like cheap target practice. Not wanting to fly away (ending his effective diversion for Strange) or get impaled (pretty obvious why), Brian tore a chunk of the wall off and batted metal away like a master cricket player.

“Papa, I’m tired of him.”

“So am I,” Magneto replied, his attention split between trying to locate Strange again and trying to do away with the burdensome Braddock. “Enough games. Even Captain Britain is flesh and blood, and where there is blood...”

Brian dropped his concrete slab and gripped his chest. Suddenly sluggish, the blonde man struggled for breath. His veins dilated with great effort. Vision doubled up. His entire body threatened to pop like an over inflated balloon. Couldn’t think right. Right hand numbed.

“Flesh and blood. We are all flesh and blood.”

Ding.

The elevator doors slid away and out strode Emma. “Not me, darling.”

Lorna gleefully clapped her hands. “So cute,” she squealed, “Like an action figure!”

That, of course, didn’t set too well. “How about some of this action in your figure?”

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

“Holy shit on a stick.”

Was that Emma Grace Frost jump kicking Magneto and this other lady like a ninja? Slack-jawed, Yvette continued filming and ignored the cries of a hungry baby some feet behind her.

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

The yelp labored to her ears, yet as soft as it was, Rogue knew who it came from.

“Mama,” she whispered.

Behind the flames, battle, and chaos, tires screeched, carrying her mother’s surprise away parabolically. “’Ro, can ya stand?”

Wincing, Storm leaned against her friend. “Barely.”

Hated doing this, hated leaving the team behind, but, “Ah think Mystique’s in trouble.”

“What does Mystique have to do with anything?”

The glare meant Ororo was unhappy. The dripping acid in her voice burned. Unconsciously, as if the metamorph’s name sullied her, she edged away from Rogue. If she had the strength, Ororo would’ve huffed and stomped, but for now, she resorted to scowling.

Rogue didn’t appreciate the sour mood. “Yer overreactin’.”

“I shouldn’t be? Child, this woman you call mother has brought you nothing but grief, and by that look in your eye, you’re going to her aid again. Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

“But-”

“But nothing,” Ororo snapped, “Mystique doesn’t deserve your notice, let alone your love.”

Being the headstrong girl she was, the more someone pushed Rogue one way, the more she rebelled out of principle. Taken by Lorna’s negative emotions, Storm pushed Rogue away from Mystique, and predictably enough, Rogue pushed back to return to Mystique’s banner. Maybe it was the cold words, commanding tone, or insults to her mama, but one weather witch upset one brunette to the point of outrage.

Of course, not that the point of outrage was far away to begin with

“You would save Mystique and ignore the X-Men?”

That sounded like a challenge. Rogue lifted her eyes and stared at Storm--yup, looked like a challenge too if the fierce, defiant stare had anything to add. If she was calmer, Rogue would’ve explained Mystique’s motivations. If there was more time, she would’ve said that the X-Men had each other but Mystique had no one, hence why she should go to her mother’s aid.

If, if, if. Here’s a good if: if Rogue took off after Mystique, would an injured Ororo be able to stop her? No? Good.

Not wanting to talk, Rogue followed the sounds of screeching tires and left her team leader, broken ribs and all, to simmer. Part of the conflict traced itself back to Lorna’s work, but the sad thing was that the words tumbling out of Storm’s mouth were true, unadulterated feelings about Mystique. Would she have said them without proper reason? Probably not, but hurt, angry, and desperate gave her enough motivation to voice her deep seated opinion, one which many X-Men shared.

Till now, Storm thought Rogue would choose the X-Men over her wayward mother. Something changed, and with all the terrible things that happened tonight, that something had to be a negative if only to fit in with the current trend.

What’s done was done. Rogue made her decision and Storm didn’t approve. Any contentions, conflicts of interest, and arguments would be squared away later if there was a team to go back to. Wind buoyed her up, and a few short breaths later, Storm re-entered the fray, glad to see Brian Braddock, Stephen Strange, and Emma Frost all working together with varying degrees of success.
This was what the X-Men should’ve been doing.

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

Blood pooled in his hands and spilled over onto the dust laden floor. He spit a phlegm-blood blend which was unfortunately more blood than phlegm. His hand reached around to his back, and right away, his fingers grazed where the bullet made its exit.

A hiss of pain escaped him.

“Gambit, can you hear me?”

“Oui,” he grunted. “Loud n’ clear, mon ami.”

Tessa unloaded on him, and even though he was fast, he wasn’t faster than two clips of bullets. As he charged and threw a card at her, one of her shots pierced his gut. The resulting explosion propelled her out the window and the resulting gunshot wound brought Remy to his knees. Maybe he should’ve been thanking God he wasn’t dead, but as blood gushed out of him, praying became the last thing on his mind.

He concentrated on breathing.

“Gambit, if you can release me, I can treat your wound.”

The Cajun brought his knuckles down on the cement to prop himself up. “Non. Tessa, da woman probably hit my stomach. Whatcha gonna do? Sew it up wit da hair on my head?”

“Tessa, how could she do this?”

“Remy dunno, but he t’ink she was mad you.”

Mad, the understatement of the century. As far as Remy could tell, Tessa never gave a voice to her emotions. She was a lot like Scott in that way, except she pulled it off with an aloof class and eerie consistency. Tears, he should’ve picked up on the ploy when she started crying. Women like Tessa only cried when they wanted something, but Remy had a soft spot for attractive, crying women.

Thinking with his dick cost him... again. If he looked closer, he might’ve picked up on the calculated steel and the much-too-passive body language that he recalled with too much clarity after the fact. She set him up and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

In Remy’s humble opinion, that alone made Tessa a good t’ief, but the thought was neither here nor there.

He gagged, and this time blood, no phlegm, came out of his mouth. Weak, his arms buckled and cement slapped his face. A familiar, comforting detachment touched him, and versus the agony he endured now, he embraced the escape.

“Listen to me!”

Mon dieu. “Be busy. Kinda dyin’ here.”

“You can cauterize your internal injuries with your powers.”

“Eh?”

“The pain will be immense, but the task is not impossible. Focus, Remy. If you create enough heat at the torn tissue, you can stop the bleeding and save yourself.”

Easy for him to say. What was this? A idea from Rambo or something?

“Don’t fade away, Gambit! The others are counting on you. Rogue is counting on you!”

Roguey. Aw, low blow right there, but then, “Dat’s why you da Prof, non?”

Couldn’t croak now since the man put Rogue’s name in his head. Stubborn girl would probably bust down the door and drag him from the afterlife if he so much as skipped a heartbeat. Stubborn girl, but sweet all the same, and Remy, in addition to having a soft spot for crying women, also had one for sweet, stubborn brunettes.

He concentrated like the Professor ordered. An intimate knowledge of his body and a bunch of experience in wounds of all types helped him envision the tears within him. Reaching beyond the overall burning, Remy guessed where he needed to focus his powers.

“Dis betta work, mon ami, else Gambit get mighty unhappy.”

Taking a deep breath, he charged all the regions of his wounds. Before the pain even hit, he blacked out.

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

Déjà vu ambushed Mystique.

Lying on the cold grass of a demon infested park? Check. Woman straddling her? Check. Same woman threatening to kill her? Check. Oh hey, look, and there was Vargas again, still swinging his sword like a guillotine. The demons? Still dying, despite scads of them charging at him.

“What did you say?” Tessa, Sebastian Shaw’s plaything, squeezed her thighs around Mystique’s ribs: if the moving wasn’t so damned sexy, it would’ve been scary. However, sexy or not, behind those sunglasses, Tessa’s dark eyes sparkled dangerously. The gun in her hand--and aimed at Mystique’s forehead--translated into trouble.

Confused? Well, here’s the instant replay of recent events.

After Tessa took the wheel of the Eclipse and hustled back toward Battery Park, Mystique had a question: why Battery Park? Why not the Empire State Building where Magneto had to be stopped, where Polaris did something wacky, and where every other X-Man seemed to be? Weren’t the X-Men the same mutants who emphasized teamwork and meshing abilities?

Why Battery Park indeed. Demon-filled and Vargas occupied, that few square miles of green lost its family appeal and Mystique herself wasn’t keen on going back. In addition, crinkles in her jacket, the smell of burnt fabric, and bruises on her skin dampened Tessa’s well-groomed, ice-cool image. A little corner of a singed playing card clung to the bottom of her pant leg.

Curiouser and curiouser...

And then things started making sense.

Battery Park. Belasco. The Cajun in New Orleans. Vargas chasing said Cajun. Dark Beast hiring Mystique. Magneto turning New York upside down. Planes crashing. Cerebra being broken. Bombs lighting the city ablaze. None of it was a coincidence. For so much chaos to happen at the same time required a devious blueprint executed by a meticulously organized entity.

Tessa fit the archetype. Sure explained a lot too, stuff like going to Battery Park (perchance to get back up from Belasco), the singed playing card (a fight with the Cajun), not backing the X-Men (well, helping the ones you wanted to hurt was pretty pointless), and flipping out when Mystique murmured, “Smells like a traitor.”

Of course, she didn’t mean to say it out loud, but like a lot of other statements, she couldn’t take it back. On the plus side, Tessa drove much more under control than Frost, so when she pulled up on the emergency brake and ejected both of them from the blown out front window, Mystique only screamed in sheer terror as opposed to cowering.

When she opened her eyes, Tessa straddled her, gun drawn and face frowning.

Stop rewind. Play.

“What. Did. You. Say,” the cyberpath carefully enunciated.

The gun didn’t compel Mystique to answer. Suffice to say, if the gun didn’t do the job, then the mean stare, hugging leather thighs, and surrounding danger didn’t fare any better.

“You heard what I said,” smirked Mystique, “I’m just feeling proud of myself for figuring you out before the X-Men did, Attrior.”

Didn’t put a face to the name till now. A traveling woman like Mystique heard many names in a day, especially when dealing with loquacious mutants. She filed away the information for a later time, and the “later time” was now.

“You are self-assured in your assessment.”

“The Dark Beast talked... a lot. He wasn’t the best choice of accomplices.”

“Now, I will have to kill you.”

The smirk never faded. “You can try.”

Before the hammer dropped, Rogue crashed into Tessa’s side and imbedded her into a nearby tree. Hard to lose smugness when a super strength daughter stood, or rather flew, at the ready.

“She hurt you, Mama?”

A witty quip prepared to unload itself, but before it did, the commotion of cold steel divesting others of body parts numbed all thought. Demons went unintentionally soaring, flung from their previous spot by a scratched but otherwise unharmed Vargas.

Sword still humming of death, he pointed the weapon at Rogue and declared, “You!”

Her DNA shifted itself, realigning and reconfiguring to match Vargas’ unique genetic signatures. She became stronger than ever possible and time slowed in her mind. Her body tuned itself to a point beyond bleeding edge. A sick sensation made itself known in the bottom of her stomach, the same feeling she got whenever she assumed someone else’s life and abilities.

“Destiny’s child,” Vargas mumbled. He dismissively slapped away the few stragglers not felled by his onslaught. “I couldn’t kill your lover, but I will not make the same mistake with you. Come, taste my revenge before your taste your own blood.”

Mystique grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Don’t let him get to-”

With reckless abandon, the stubborn girl lunged forward. Things about Polaris, psychic attacks, and fighting smart instead of hard never made it out Mystique’s mouth. Frowning replaced talking, and after this, after killing Vargas once and for all, she’d sit down and give the girl a long lecture about the shit-for-tactics the X-Men seemed to be peddling. Come on, in one evening, she’d witnessed the mansion’s destruction, the team’s capture, two crazy ladies driving through Manhattan like it was drag race, and no real organized attempt to stop any of the present catastrophes.

Made Mystique wonder what she did wrong to constantly lose to these people.

The woman sighed and moved to assist Rogue, but the distinct sound of a gunshot zipping by where she was a second ago put her on high alert. Her eyes shifted to source of the disturbance.

Tessa.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“My life is complete. Every additional moment is a bonus.”

Shit, not another one of those suicidal types: one a day was one too many. Not wanting to be a target for another easy shot, Mystique dove into the foliage before another two came her way.

Tessa gave chase.

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

“Please sir, put the gun down.”

“No way, lady! Get me outta here and people don’t get shot!”

Meggan raised her hands in an unthreatening way and hoped he didn’t snap. The man was determined and that maddened gleam in his eyes disturbed her. With a gun in his grip and a child in his grasp, Meggan dared not risk a surprise maneuver. Should he kill the child, everyone here would probably go ballistic, which was the last thing she needed.

She tried the peaceful approach again. “Can I do something for you that will make you stop?”

“Yeah.” He waved the barrel of his pistol at the crowd gawking at him. “Tell ‘em to get out of my way and I’ll be gone. I don’t wanna kill no one, but,” and he pushed the barrel against his young hostage’s temple to highlight his statement, “I ain’t above it neither.”

“You do know that if the demons see you, they’ll eviscerate you and follow your scent back to us.”

Key words--“eviscerate” and “demons”--put the occupants of Frost Tower on edge. A ripple of murmurs rose over the oppressively warm air, and if possible, the stress level went up to the higher stratosphere. The man’s resolve faltered, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and pointed the gun at Meggan.

“You’re fuckin’ with me, lady. I don’t appreciate people fuckin’ with me!”

Meggan didn’t appreciate people pointing guns at her but she quashed her complaint. “Why do you want to leave? Don’t you realize how dangerous it is out there?”

“Don’t matter. My son’s down at Times Square and I just felt an earthquake or something. All these fuckin’ mutants can go to hell! I gotta find him!”

A desperate father huh? The blonde sighed and closed her eyes. No decent human being refused such a request, but at the same time, his reckless devotion to his son put the greater community in danger. Undying love or selfish folly--whatever she chose to label this act as, Meggan couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that many lives and much happiness rested on her shoulders.

Already mutants and demons breached Frost Towers. If Brian didn’t hurry, they’d have to seek shelter elsewhere, and to walk out into the street in a large group of obvious humans meant certain doom. Was she really saving this man’s life for very long? Did this man even want to be saved?

Problem: if he left, others would want to leave too. Eventually, separate voices would degenerate what little order remained, and like that, everything would blow away.

Problem: if he stayed, he probably wouldn’t put the gun down. Bad things would happen and people would run out into the streets, screaming and crying like the wrecks they were.

Meggan hated moral dilemmas which were unfortunate consequences of the superheroine lifestyle. “Does your son have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” the man snapped, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? He’s not answering!”

Looking around, she lifted a phone from one of the people surrounding her. The woman didn’t seem to notice or mind. “Call him again,” offered Meggan. “Maybe he just didn’t have reception.”

Suspicious, the man shrank away and tightened his hold on the silently sobbing boy.

Meggan turned her charm on: smile comforting, eyes compassionate, shoulders relaxed. “Please? If you call him and no one answers, I promise I’ll let you go to Times Square.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,R 21; the blonde nodded.

She stepped closer to him, arm out and holding the cell phone. The sweating, gun totting man reached for the device, but he never made it there. When their fingers got close enough, a jolt of electricity passed from Meggan to the man--nothing powerful enough to kill him, but enough to make him lose consciousness for a short second or two. The gun, man, and boy all went their separate directions, and in no time, the policemen in the crowd stepped in to cuff the prone hostage taker.

Crisis averted, time to feel proud, but somehow, the stares many of the older people gave her chilled her bones. They questioned her decision, and for the first time, Meggan went face to face with an unadoring, skeptical public.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Everyone in London was so... so... grateful, but these Americans scowled and frowned like she stole their money clips. She helped them all, and if they lived to tell about it, they’d be thanking her in their stories. For now, they made her feel so small and petty, their questions and quiet outrage penetrating her already thin emotional armor.

Brian would’ve stood taller and descend down the stairs. Betsy would’ve spun on her heel and left. Meggan retreated, her posture devoid of her usual joy.

For better or for worse, she wasn’t used to rejection.

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

Diamond resisted scratching like no other naturally occurring material. It’s crystalline structure, however, made it susceptible to breakage from violent impacts, like say, falling seventy stories onto concrete. Large, uncut slabs of diamond didn’t shatter as easily, owing their integrity to sheer mass and the lack of place for force to focus upon. With that said, under constant, extreme conditions, diamonds, even giant samples of diamonds, were breakable.

As Emma found out, the pounding of Lorna’s fists qualified as constant, extreme conditions.

She caught Polaris’ wrist and squeezed. Under the strain of such dense and tough material, a normal limb would’ve burst into a cocktail of shattered bone, torn flesh, and blood. Lorna giggled and threw a punch, which thanks to Betsy’s fighting prowess, found a new home in Emma’s other hand. Anyone else would’ve been yelling for Emma to let go but not Lorna, oh no, the daughter of Magneto giggled even harder.

“You’re tough, Emma!”

The devious sparkle in those words alarmed the blonde.

As well they should’ve. “Not tough enough though.”

Still giggling, Lorna smashed her forehead against her opponent’s face. So mighty the hit that it released Emma’s holds and catapulted her through two decorative pillars. The giggling continued without slowing.

“Papa, did you see that? She can’t even hurt me!”

When no one answered, she turned around and gawked at her father’s convulsing body suspended in midair. Captain Britain below and his cohort far away did a bunch of chanting. Storm, recovered and looking for trouble, hurled lightning bolts at Magneto’s fading shields. All three people looked to be doing a good job hurting Lorna’s papa, and Lorna didn’t like people hurting her papa.

“Stop!” she screamed, tears falling from her eyes, “STOP!”

The very earth shook as Lorna, pissed off and desperate, took another hit of Kick. Sewer pipes and subway rails broke from their underground lairs. Statues, billboards, parking meters, and cars lifted into the skies. Her chest hurt and blood wouldn’t stop pouring from her nose, but the power she wielded eased the uncertainty like a childhood blanket.

She went higher into the sky and prepared to punish these trespassers for hurting Papa.

Meanwhile, Emma examined her hand. The dimming moonlight revealed a repulsively beautiful series of hairline fractures within her body. No pain, no worry, just a bland observation that if Lorna struck her a few more times, something was going to break into a million pieces. The two resounding falls and the Hulk-like hits took their toll on Emma’s thought to be indestructible body.

Since when did Lorna become Hulk-like? Since when did her powers surpass Magneto’s? Since never, and since now, Emma worked her brain like never before.

The new abilities. The organized, systematic destruction of everything X-Men. The look on Mystique’s face back at Battery Park like a light bulb went off. Hell, her appearance and cooperation. Magneto and Polaris, working together. Betsy’s return and the underlying tension in the mansion all week. Emma’s own capture by Dark Beast. The Blackbird self-destructing for no reason. Tessa falling out of one of the world’s tallest buildings. And finally, those words... Tessa’s fateful words...

“I have found a disturbing trend on the premises of late. Because I only have conjectures at this point, my words to you are simple: I will be watching your every move.”

At the time, it sounded like a threat. Emma knew better, and after so many days, she puzzled out Tessa’s cryptic missive.

It wasn’t a threat but rather an arrogant, “I know what’s going on and you don’t” taunt designed to make Emma worry about herself and lose track of the subtle troubles brewing. Not like the taunt was needed seeing as how Emma busied herself with Betsy and their bond, but under normal circumstances, the blonde would’ve consumed Tessa’s grumblings and become way too preoccupied. Betsy’s return rendered the words useless, but no way Tessa could’ve known that beforehand. Like the girl scout she was, she accounted for every contingency and acted with the utmost care.

This time, her care revealed her.

Not like the revelation did any good long after the bombs, literally and figuratively, dropped. What if all this smacked of Tessa’s cool, calculated touch? What if Emma was undoubtedly right? Her body still contained hairline factures, Lorna still readied herself to turn the roof into a metal wasteland, and try as she might, Emma couldn’t outmuscle or outmaneuver the green haired harpy.

Unless, of course, she telepathically attacked Polaris.

Flesh reclaimed the hand. She expected discomfort simply because her diamond body had the fissures. Incredibly, her skin and bone self suffered no consequences. The sigh of relief froze in its tracks when Emma couldn’t feel Betsy’s presence anymore. Her instincts flipped the panic button but her mind held herself down. Panicking was exactly the thing not to do--it didn’t shed any light on Betsy or help Emma out of this life and death quagmire.

Storm, watching the horror of projectiles rising from the ground to impale them all, called the fiercest tempest she could and hoped for the wind, rain, and thunder to shield them. Metal paid the elemental obstacles no heed and continued on like missiles.

Against the backdrop of darkness, both Brian and Stephen uttered the final words of their spell. A red glow swallowed Magneto like a fire, and as if doing it would stop his suffering, he tore his helmet off. What lay beneath was something frightening, something disfigured and definitely not Magneto. His clothes ripped, done away by expanding mass. His eyes and mouth spewed an icy blue fog.

The metal kept coming.

Pulling herself up, Emma stood against Ororo’s fury and reached into Lorna Dane’s splintered mind. A true X-Man might’ve been interested in her life story and her reasons for going postal, but Emma wasn’t an X-Man, not even an X-Woman. She was a teacher, and teachers protected their students, the same students Lorna endangered. Were there extenuating circumstances? Probably. Could Lorna be manipulated? Sure. Was there a peaceful solution? Of course.

Emma, however, wasn’t up for exploring her options.

As strong as Lorna was, as powerful as had become, as high as she was on drugs, she had no mental barriers, at least none that posed an experienced telepath any trouble. With an overloading mental blast, Emma shut down Lorna’s hummingbird-like mind and watched the woman--and her metal minions--collapse, the metal to the churned up sidewalk and the woman herself through the Empire State Building’s roof.

Casually, Emma strolled over to the impressive hole to critique her handiwork. Low and behold, a knocked out Lorna had landed not an arm’s length from a bound and collared Charles Xavier. The old man seemed none worse for the wear, but not far from him, a certain Cajun looked to be in a bad way.

“Emma,” the Professor coughed as he spat out chalky dust, “You are truly a sight for sore eyes.”

“And you’re a sore sight for my eyes.”

A sharp piercing shot through Emma’s back. Without her consent, a liquid injected into her body. Before she even turned around, her face ran hot and the minds of the city howled into her ears. When she did turn around, Esme Stepford stood behind her, shocked but concurrently proud. Thoughts and emotions visibly manifested themselves to Emma, thoughts like Brian’s worry, Stephen’s surprise, Esme’s glee, Charles’ relief, and Betsy, where the hell was Betsy?

“I killed someone,” Esme called out to the still retching former Magneto, “I killed Emma Frost!”

Magneto didn’t seem impressed. Actually, he didn’t even respond. Emma’s weakened knees failed to support her frame and dizzying head. She heard her heart pounding and her breaths shallowing. Confused? No, she wasn’t confused. Her telepathy exploded into epic proportions, and one glance at Esme told her the story. Ghosts of the past, ghosts that touched the needle which held her death, appeared like the same ones in a Dickens novel.

Kick, a new drug tailored by McCoy and distributed by Tessa, burned at her mutant physiology, enhancing her abilities but also shorting out her body. The fatal injection was originally meant for Rachel Summers as a rite of passage into Magneto’s plans. Stuff happened, Esme still had the needle, and now, she plunged it into Emma, her teacher.

As long as her blood distributed the substance, Emma would very quickly exhaust her biological resources and work herself to death. And Esme danced at the prospect while everyone looked on like idiots.

*Betsy, where are you?*

Betsy would know what to do. At least, if she didn’t, Emma could apologize for leaving her behind to face Vargas alone. In hindsight, that was probably a bad decision.

*Betsy, answer me!*

The Stepford sister danced and pranced out into the open where Ororo’s tempest slowed. “Can’t you see? I did it, Magnus! I killed an X-Man!”

A brutish roar deafened Emma. Mixed into the roar was a girlish peel of fear followed by gargling noises. The Kick kicked in, knocking Emma over onto her back. Poor, foolish Esme, the little femme fatale weakly struggled for air against “Magneto’s” boot which planted itself over her throat. Only when he snarled at her did she finally realize the man she wanted to please wasn’t home. Only too late did she regret pumping Emma, her teacher and the person most likely to save her, full of drugs.

Moving blood spread the deadly Kick. Emma’s veins tired. As her final recourse, she returned to her diamond form and hoped her secondary mutation would cease her bodily functions, enough for her to survive. The customary icy calm greeted her and she waited for death’s terror to leave, but it didn’t. Emotions seconds ago remained overwhelming; her telepathy didn’t retreat.

Kick... the substance changed her, perhaps even at the genetic level. With McCoy’s stamp of approval, anything was possible, but a drug was still a drug and it required a biological medium for it to operate: a diamond lattice didn’t fit the bill. Whatever genetic flaw preventing Emma from accessing her psychic powers and from feeling sensations went the way of the dinosaurs and left her with this.

No more cold logic, no more numbness, and damn it, she was just warming up to having no empathy. Being the White Queen and doing White Queen-esque things was much easier to pull off when she didn’t have a conscience in the way.

Ok, beside the point now. Although Emma had an excuse for being shocked, stunned, and otherwise appalled, everyone else on this battleground didn’t. Esme still wasn’t dead, this gross Magneto wasn’t good news, and demons still infested Battery Park. Yeah, despite the wayward Stepford’s act, Emma couldn’t bear to see another student die.

Ruined, jailed, and or persecuted? Sure, but killed? No.

“Get going!” Emma shouted. “That thing isn’t going to lay down and die by itself!”

The declaration ignited Brian and Ororo, but Strange, levitating in the background, stayed put. “I sense a formidable presence approaching.”

A ball of brilliant fire passed through where the Sorcerer Supreme was. Somehow, despite the pyrotechnics, all the man ended up with was a singed cape and a slight cough. The fireball continued, flashed, rotated, and then broke apart, spewing steaming embers into the rain as it framed two humanoid forms.

“A formidable presence?” chuckled Belasco, his voice coming from the steam and smoke, “There was a time when you’d call me worse things, Strange. What prompted my demotion?”

Demon on the roof. Demon in the air. Good ol’ Brian Braddock had his irrefutable proof of who drove this devious engine of destruction. As always, hearing a friend’s assessment and experiencing the fact were contrasting creatures. “You might as well return to your domain, Belasco. You cannot win here!”

“Any place else, your highness, and I would give an ounce of credence to your words, but not in the physical realm of your pathetic mortals. You lay claim over the Otherworld, and Otherworld this is not. My subjects will overrun this place and make it mine. There is nothing you can do, Braddock spawn! Demons pour forth, your allies are in ruins, and best of all...”

He tugged on a strip of leather, and out from the last of the cloudiness emerged Betsy, claws extended, tongue elongated and pointed, wide eyes beady, and shadows enfolding her like armor.

“Best of all,” Belasco repeated while running his hand through her hair, “I get to witness an interesting family reunion.”

To the near unrecognizable, slathering abstract attached to a hook, Brian whispered, “Sis?”

Belasco released the leash and Betsy was upon him like a starving animal, flying through the air and landing on his body while swiping, gnashing, and every other kind of striking. The demonic magnus motioned to the shadow of Magneto, gesturing at the downed Esme and pantomiming a throat slash. “Finish the girl.”

Choices. Another snap decision forced its ugly way into Emma’s mind. No longer coldly logical and devoid of emotion, young love factored into her thought process. Save a girl who tried to kill her or reclaim the generous woman who wanted her? Let it be known that Emma was the White Queen, a vindictive, egotistical, selfish expression of humanity. Let it be known that while she dropped the mantle and assumed a more altruistic lifestyle, Emma Grace Frost remained as vindictive, egotistical, and selfish as ever, only now she had a conscience.

A small conscience.

The choice wasn’t even a choice.

Emma, fractured body and all, seized Betsy’s clawed hand. “Bad, Betsy, don’t hit your brother like that.”

Her eyes held no hint of recognition much less any humor. With a saliva slurping hiss, the demon that was Betsy dropped her assault on Brian and went after Emma.

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

Devastation divested many Manhattan buildings of their luster. Engineering marvels crumbled under their own weight, unable to support the floors and floors of majesty because of their weakened foundations. Some unlucky buildings simply winked out of existence, here one moment, gone the next, death by bombs courtesy of the U.S. government. Whether half-gutted or knocked over, every structure bore a bit of the world’s fury.

“Sam?” Using her nose, Paige nudged her brother’s shoulder. “Sam, talk ta me.”

Instead of talking, Sam slid off the three people he protected with his blast field. He thudded to the innocuously pristine ground, his face strained but motionless, his limbs splayed about unnaturally.

“Ma Gawd, Sam! Say somethin’!”

“He’s not breathing,” Bishop noted as he thrashed about in his restraints. “Cannonball might’ve overexerted himself by protecting us from the explosion. His body is probably worn out and just given up. We need to administer CPR and fast.”

Alex, who remained quiet throughout the day’s drama, wobbled back and forth in his ice prison. He rocked so hard that he tipped over and shattered the melting frost like a hammer smashing porcelain. Dumbfounded, Bishop and Paige watched as the younger Summers brother pop his left shoulder out of its socket and painfully extracted one arm from his metal bindings. With a manly cry of pain, he rammed his upper arm into the pavement and righted the joint.

Still wordlessly, the man walked over to a fallen Sam and administered first aid like a trained and experienced paramedic.

Bishop and Paige looked at each other, blinked, and then looked at Alex again.

“Um, how we gettin’ out?”

“I don’t know,” Bishop mumbled, “But I’m not doing what he just did.”

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

Every story had a bad guy. Every story had a climax. Every reader wanted the good guy to win. Stories were all fine and dandy but they held no water in real life. First of all, no one ever set out to be the bad guy, much less wake up and say, “Wow, I’m bad. I’m going to do unjustifiable things and bring carnage to this planet for no good reason.” What was this? A comic book? Second, like bad sex, not every occasion had a climax. More often than not, real life dramatics petered out into nothingness, the heat and passion of the moment long snuffed out.

Third? Sometimes, the good guys weren’t guys. Sometimes, the good guys were gals.

Rogue dipped under Vargas’ sword and charged into his gut. Her feet kept moving as she drove herself further into the Spaniard. The immovable object lost ground, and once he did, Rogue hefted him up a few inches and ran his back through trees, bathrooms, parked cars, and other miscellaneous obstacles. Annoyed, he brought the pommel of his sword down on her back once, twice, three times, but the brunette continued her trek.

She even snuck in a few sucker punches.

Again and again he pounded against her. Rogue coughed, each strike coaxing another spittle of blood from her mouth. Dogged determination saw her through, and now, run out of things to demolish, she set her sights and Vargas’s back on the surrounding monsters. Big, small, short, tall, gross, cute, five armed or four, they filled the role of “improvised weaponry” against Vargas.

A particularly spiky, ball-like demon with legs which resembled a puffed up blowfish looked like a tempting target. Rogue charged and the bloodcurdling scream she bellowed frightened the poor, cowardly thing. It waved its stubby hands in defeat, but when it saw no mercy coming its way, it ran for dear life.

Of course, ball-like things with malformed appendages didn’t run fast, but survival instincts added a helping of speed to its diet. It scurried behind a streetlight and tried to tuck its impressive gut in to fit behind the slim cover. Huff, huff, huff, suck it went, but all the huffing and sucking couldn’t shrink its girth. Terrified, it started mewing pathetically and spinning around in little circles.

And then Vargas collided into the light pole.

The tube of metal fell like a tree, uprooting cement and live wires. The pole acted as a rolling pin on dough, flattening the fat demon straight down the middle. Spiky protrusions met Vargas’ body but so thick was his skin that even the sharpest of outgrowths bent and snapped. While not drawing blood, this final attack did hurt, and by reflex, his prized sword dropped to the ground.

Lumbering off the man, Rogue scooped up his weapon and unsteadily held it over his head.

“We’ve been here before,” Vargas chuckled hoarsely, “Do you have what it takes to finish what you started?”

“Ah shoulda shut you up when ah had the chance,” she said, prepared to bring the weapon down, “Ah ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”

Somewhere between the attack and the beheading, Vargas clapped his palms against the blade. Inches from his neck, the sword menacingly gleamed, a violent extension of Rogue’s darkest urgings.

“What makes you think a few feet of forged steel will stop me?”

His hands turned and yanked, throwing the sword backwards after Rogue unwillingly let go and he willingly so. Vargas himself bounced back up and grazed his opponent with a wild right hook. Duck, weave, jab to her stomach, one to her side, one to her side--she readied herself for another jab to the same side, and that gave him the split-second opening he needed to sock her jaw with a bone crushing sound.

Rogue stumbled into one of the park’s railings, the same ones used to prevent people from falling into freezing waters. Vargas pinned her down by firing a series of rapid kicks and punches into vulnerable, difficult to defend spots. Despite her attention devoted to defending, relentless blows hammered against her so hard the railing began to give way.

Creak.

Metal twisting.

Crunch.

Cement breaking.

The hits kept coming, the next stronger and faster than the last. A hand grabbed the back of her head and brought her face into a sharp elbow. Snapping back, she almost tumbled over the railing, but Vargas grabbed her shirt. With cocky smile and fist readied, he geared up for the final curtain.

“Give my regards to Destiny.”

Suddenly, Rogue’s half-lidded eyes sprung open. “She says hi.”

An unexpected knee to the groin hunched him over. Then, up and over he went, dark waters rushing up to meet him. Splash. The might of an ocean slammed him against jagged rocks. Harsh iciness made his entire body tingle, and while he didn’t doubt his physical conditioning or superior genetics, he realized that staying in these waters wasn’t a smart idea.

Throwing an arm around an outcropping, he slowly hauled himself out of the current. Only halfway up, a tremendous weight landed on his forearm and depressed his limb a good six inches into the stone.

Looming above him, Rogue locked onto his elbow. “Ah reckon ya got a choice, Mr. Vargas. Get outta Dodge or get dead.”

“You’ve been making the threat since we’ve met,” the man smirked, oblivious to the attempts to harm his chiseled body, “Even your mutant powers can’t slow me down.”

“Yer human, Vargas.”

“Homo sapiens superior.”

“Unless ya suddenly grew a pair o’ gills on me, ya still gotta eat, sleep, and breathe.” Her free hand pushed his head under water.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

Oh, Vargas didn’t want to submerge quietly. He struggled, but unsteady waves bashed at him, a current threatened to pull him under, Rogue had all of her weight on top of his arm, he couldn’t use his other one to grab hold of anything else, and damn was the water cold. He fought for breath, but the mutant girl’s strength seemed to be growing, perhaps gleaned from him by her power. Hm, probably spoke too soon about that annoying power earlier.

Just above him, just above the water’s surface, Rogue’s distortedly grim features bade him farewell. Yes, even homo sapiens superior needed to breathe, and while Vargas’s lung capacity far outstripped a normal human’s, he couldn’t exist indefinitely under water. He kicked, he wiggled, he battled, but he didn’t have the leverage to pull away or the wherewithal to break through to the surface. Lungs searing. Nose clogged. Eyes blurred and dimming. He floated in a world of nothingness suspended in the nebula of wakefulness and sleep. His heart raced, spurred on by adrenaline and mental panic.

If he could, he’d groan in frustration. Done in by water: how embarrassing. Water, the origin of life--funny how it spelled his doom. From water rose his species and to water now he’d return. Water... the maker and destroyer of nations... water... his tomb...

No glory, no honor, no cataclysm, just a desperate gargle, a bunch of bubbles, and then silence.

Breathe. Everyone had to breathe. Finally, Vargas succumb to the need and his lungs opened up to get a rush of life-giving air. Instead, water flooded his system. His muscles became rigid, all of them starved for air. He felt like his body was about to burst. A permanent chill soothed his aching throat and stuffed up his mind.

One more breath escaped him, and then he was still.

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

Bobby staggered and hit his head against the improvised igloo he made. He did it: he didn’t get either him or Warren killed. Actually, speaking of Warren, didn’t someone shoot him before they landed in this building?

Of course and Bobby’s ice wasn’t helping the healing process. With his blood’s regenerative properties, Warren could survive the fatal gunshot. The harsh landing needed time to mend, but it wasn’t impossible. However, when the temperature of his surroundings fell below freezing and his already blue skin went purple, well, that was just too much even for him.

Shaking and bleeding, Warren huddled into a ball and tried desperately to warm himself. Noticing his friend’s state, Bobby started smashing a hole through the thick, thick ice in hopes of escaping and reaching warmer conditions. As he worked to produce something both of them could fit through, scores of high-pitched, bird-like calls grated against his ears.

He stuck his head out the smallish hole in time to see a grotesque, deformed lady with wings pop out of nowhere and swipe at his nose. He shrunk back far enough and took a page from Superman’s playbook: he breathed a ploom of freezing cold around his attacker. The high-pitched shrill and ominous hissing ceased as a big ball of ice went tink, tink, crash on its way down to the unyielding ground.

Bobby chuckled to himself. “Superman, you’re my hero.”

Suddenly, another demonic woman popped up before him, then another and another. “Gah!” he yelled, tumbling to his butt. Startled and not wanting to get startled again, he raised his hands and resealed the hole with a knee-jerk quickness.

“Shit, Warren, did you see that? What were those things?”

Whatever they were, Warren had enough on his mind. For instance, while Bobby went on a tirade about crazy, fanged women, Warren himself multi-tasked, bleeding, shivering, and observing at the same time. What he observed wouldn’t go over too well with his teammate.

“Bobby,” he hacked, “Up.”

Two pairs of eyes gazed at the dome’s ceiling. Translucent images crawled all over the opaque barrier like swarming flies. One, two, fifty--more and more latched onto the ice. In concert, the things let go an eardrum busting shriek and then began the arduous task of chipping through to their targets.

Bobby immediately scooted away from the walls. “Somehow, I don’t think they want to be friends.”

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

Her soulsword cut through a mutant but two others took his place. While no longer rabid like the previous batch, this mob still had plenty of hostility and the ability to express it. The numbers game extracted its price on Amanda, and as she backed away to rest her tired arm, something unexpected clobbered the back of her head.

The attacker’s follow-through showed a brick red arm bulging with muscles. The mutants in front of her smiled at their successful ploy and closed in. Kick and there went her sword, flying end over end and sheathing itself in an unlucky mutant’s gut.

The duo held her tight. “Cocky bitch. Let’s see what happens after Mikey gets done with you!”

They whipped her around and there stood a stout man as wide as he was tall. His entire body had the brick red pigment of his arm. In other words, Mikey was built like a house... a brick house.

As this muscular specimen cracked his knuckles and wound back to knock her head off, a bunch of new enemies entered the fray: demons. Shades most of them, but their general ugliness shocked the mutants, making them waste their precious second to meet the threat at an advantage.

Neither Amanda or Meggan wasted that second.

Amanda slipped out of her captor’s hands and bolted to the back of the lobby. Meggan, finally emerging from one of the offices, waved her hands and commanded the earth to rise. A ten foot divide formed in the middle of the lobby, throwing mutants in random directions and providing a small obstacle for the shades to climb over. The soulsword hummed and appeared in Amanda’s hand.

Mikey and his two friends, the stragglers not stuck on the other side of the divide, listened to the agonizing cries of their allies as the shades devoured them.

“Now,” said Meggan to the three, “are you willing to stop your senseless rebellion and fight for survival?”

“If not,” Amanda added, still peeved over the considerable bruise her head sported, “I’d more than gladly let the demons gnaw the meat off your bones.”

“Amanda!”

“What? I’m being honest.”

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

Filming required all her focus and energy. Yvette catalogued every nuance with a museum curator’s meticulousness. Undoubtedly, much of this would end up on the cutting room floor, but she’d rather have more footage than not enough.

Oh, a destroyed McDonald’s sign! Something like that would make a great fade out or fade in shot. The audience all knew what McDonald’s was, and for many it was a comforting sight in a foreign environment. Think of the accent the burnt, broken, and unlit sign would have.

“I’m a genius.”

A breeze brushed her neck. Yvette let out a small gasp and swung her camera wildly. “Who’s there?” she demanded of the empty street.

A door to her left, one leading into the computer store, slammed shut. The breeze brushed against her neck again.

“Hello? Excuse me but this isn’t funny.”

Her feet moved her into the middle of the street where she’d get a chance to react should something leap out from the dead buildings. She pressed the night vision button and swept her surroundings.

No use. Small fires provided enough light to render the technology useless. Shadows brought to life by flickering flames mocked her. Hidden in their depths could be anything, but that anything revealed nothing.

The intact windows rattled. Another door slammed. The breeze didn’t stop.

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

Outside a shop, dimmed Christmas lights relit while a corny holiday tune when ding, ding, ding in the cold night. Loose boards and chunks of concrete fell, and just as quickly as the sounds were made, they silenced themselves. The breeze became a violent gale, extinguishing the surrounding fires in one unnatural expression of nature.

Yvette’s hand shook. Her artsy endeavor didn’t seem so artsy anymore. “Help! Somebody? Can anyone hear me? Help!”

Vacant rumbles of laughter quickened her pulse. Red eyes gleamed and blinked, popping up in alleys, behind cars, and in anywhere else darkness made its home. Hundreds of eyes gleefully followed her terrified steps. She turned to run but those eyes were everywhere, suffocating her with nothing but their presence.

Tears gushed. “Oh God,” she softly cried, “Oh God... please, don’t hurt me. I’ll give you whatever I have just leave me alone...”

A cloud passed overhead and blocked the last of the moonlight. Far away laughter closed in along with the eyes. Yvette fumbled the camcorder, almost dropping it. Her foot stepped into a pothole and her ankle twisted with a few audible creaks. The laughter increased in numbers and volume. Yvette stopped backing away, unable to drag herself another step.

Then, from beyond the darkness, a brunette ghost cradling a baby passed into the scene. Her evanescent body ignored the unrevealed monsters’ raging swipes. She broke their ranks and came straight toward her, a familiar human beacon in this hellish nightmare.

A hand solidified and grabbed Yvette’s wrist. “Don’t let go.”

Kitty phased and took the speechless camerawoman with her. Through Belasco’s demons they ran, now close enough to the things that their horrific countenances became real. Yvette attached the red eyes to decaying flesh and jagged teeth; despite her fear, she made sure to get a few good shots of the things. Claws flew at them but didn’t hurt; angry snarls filled the air. The darkness appeared to be eternal with the disappearance of the moon.

Looking up, Yvette prayed for the cloud to quickly move away. Only then did she realize that a cloud didn’t block the moon’s light--flying demons did.

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

Mystique shifted again, this time assuming a horrid form complete with holes in her cheeks, a pointy ribcage, and drooping skin. The legions of demons paid her no mind and stampeded past her like no one’s business. Figuring Tessa would assume she’d hightail out of this maelstrom, Mystique went against the waves of monsters and waded further toward the swirling red light, all the while using her powers to disguise herself.

But her powers wouldn’t do any good if Tessa used her telepathy. Rumor had it that she wasn’t the strongest of telepaths, and Mystique hoped the lack of strength would allow her a means of escape. Worry and caution dominated her: somewhere out there, a psychic mutant with a gun and a grudge hunted her. Had to move like a chameleon; had to stay hidden and far away.

Unlike the X-Men, Mystique subscribed to the notion of retreating. Conflict resolution didn’t have to end in a grizzle exhibition of fireworks, last-ditch efforts, and prerequisite carnage. Run away? Conflict resolved. Sure, retreat could be construed as cowardly; then again, William Hung could be construed as attractive so there wasn’t an accounting for taste.

A single gunshot pierced the back of Mystique’s thigh and exploded out the front. The sudden and vicious wound forced her to revert back to her blue-skinned, original form. She tumbled, rolling a handful of times and coming to a halt at the trunk of an overgrown tree. Missed shots which ended up digging into brittle bark spewed woodchips and put Mystique in scramble mode.

Dragging her leg, she labored to put obstacles between her and Tessa. Another wave of demons approached, and after inhaling a deep breath, her body remolded itself to look like them. She couldn’t stop her limp and wouldn’t look at the wound: acknowledging it only gave it more power to hurt her. Motivated by not wanting to become something’s after-midnight snack, her willpower kept her weaving past the monsters at a frenzied clip. If she kept moving, they wouldn’t detect her. If she kept moving, Tessa couldn’t catch her. If she kept moving, she’d eventually get away from this hellhole.

So focused was she on putting one foot in front of the other that Tessa, with that computer-like mind and tactical knowledge, came out of nowhere and planted her on her butt. Mystique didn’t catch the intricate maneuvers or how Tessa leveled her, but she was a practical girl and practical girls dealt with the here and the now.

The now: about to be shot.

The here: grassy knoll, surrounded by ignorant, lemming-like demons, and behind her the rapturous visage of Dane Whitman.

Dane Whitman? What was the Black Knight, noted do-gooder and long time Avenger, doing looking like a villainous individual? The man pulsated with a palatable power. From that power came a rip in space, and from that rip more demons crawled through. It lashed out at the world with angry lightning, ceasing only when it widened to drop off another load of its infernal cargo. Wild guess here, but maybe the virtuous Black Knight wasn’t virtuous anymore?

Towering over her with her gun readied, Tessa smiled. “Checkmate, Mystique.”

Checkmate--Irene’s final warning replayed itself.

“When you are in a checkmate, have the black queen remove her own knight.”

One Black Knight hovered in the back. Gun aimed at her and lying on the ground, Mystique considered this checkmate. And the black queen? Well, Tessa wasn’t Selene, but dressed in the tight black top, the hugging leather pants, and that black trench, she could pass. Now, Mystique had to convince Tessa to shoot Whitman instead of her.

*Time to try and pull the wool over my second telepath today.*

Crap, did she just think that?

Everything went into slow motion. The top of the gun jerked back as a fine mist of smoke ejected out. Tessa’s hand recoiled and at the same time, Mystique lurched her head. The hot bullet clipped her ear and shocked her body enough for it to reclaim its original form. Half transformed, Mystique grabbed hold of Tessa’s wrist to prevent the next and deadly shot. As they jockeyed for the firearm’s control, they contested their strength and fighting skills.

The gun discharged.

Bang into the air. Bang into the ground. Bang into Mystique’s side. The metamorph gritted her teeth and pushed, finally getting enough space to stand. Tessa allowed the move if only to get in better position to go bang.

Bang to the left. Bang to the right. Bang into Mystique’s chest.

Still slow, everything so slow and blurry and tired. Her feet slipped out and she rolled down into a large rock sticking out of the grass at the knoll’s base. Tessa was about to cackle but the sound of thunder shut her up.

Dane Whitman still floated in the portal except now, blood gushed out of his throat like a fountain. The portal heaved, expanding a hair before quickly deflating. Flashes of light acting like broken fragments of power went everywhere. Demons journeying to this realm howled, startled by the sudden collapsing and corresponding instability.

The Black Knight spasmed once then died. The portal audibly yawned, and like that, it inhaled.

Things like demons, birds, trashcans, and Tessa not firmly lodged into the ground got pulled closer. Mystique, bullet holes and all, shape shifted and melded her hands together so the violent suction wouldn’t break her weakening grasp. The force heightened, reaching a point where bipedal beings lost their footing and soared into the portal.

Tessa ditched her gun and laid herself flat. Fingers jabbed into the soil, she anchored herself, albeit unstably. Her trench coat, till now a great asset, flagged at the portal’s mercy and tried to take her with it. The portal didn’t do her any favors by gaining momentum.

Throughout the park, protests rang out. Many of Belasco’s minions, many who only now got into the action, didn’t appreciate their fun being cut short.

They didn’t like it, but they didn’t have a choice either.

Soil slowly buckled under Tessa’s digits. Ten little grooves formed, each space a testament to the woman’s strength. She might’ve been allies with Belasco, might’ve even gotten on his “good” side, but she had no intention of touring his hell dimension for herself.

The Professor’s files on Illyana Rasputin painted a macabre picture of her imprisonment. Belasco had an acute eye for physical and psychological torture, two things Tessa avoided if possible.

Loose pebbles broke skin. Blood running out lubricated the space between finger and dirt, reducing traction. Flying objects pelted her as they unwillingly went into the vortex. It yawned again and kicked into another gear, uprooting small to medium sized trees. In front of her, a fat little demon bounced, its trajectory heading straight into her. Tessa evaluated the state of her arms and found them lacking in the ability to brace her against impact.

The ball of blubber smacked her on the forehead, shattering her sunglasses and peeling her fingers off the ground. Her back splatted against the solid ebb of lightning and with a wink, darkness.

Meanwhile, Mystique held on for dear life, the wound in her chest opening bigger and bigger. The bullet hit a lung and left her feeling like she had acute pneumonia, you know, that horrible drowning above land feeling. Being at the bottom of a hill had its advantages, the most important being shielded from much of the incoming harm. So, all Mystique had to do was keep her arms melded together around the rock and she’d survive... hopefully.

Contending with blood loss, the woman tried to stay awake and in one piece while the portal raged behind her like a hungry giant yearning only for more, more, more. Giving one last hurrah, the black hole inhaled, doubled in size, and then buckled into nothingness. Around her, only strong trees and blades of grass remained. Lucky demons not in Battery Park’s vicinity still ran free, but the bulk, a good three quarters, of Belasco’s forces disappeared back to their origins.

Mystique shuddered and fell unconscious.

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

Every crane of her neck shocked her system courtesy of “Magneto’s” blackening boot print. Her voice hadn’t quite returned yet--in fact, her breath hadn’t made it around the corner yet--but life didn’t stop for her. When her teacher, Ms. Emma Grace Frost, forsook her and went after that... that... Psylocke-looking thing, the last wisp of Esme’s hopes went out.

Then Ms. Munroe, Storm, blasted her captor off of her with what had to be tornado like winds. Esme rolled out of the way and hid herself as well as she could. Her neck throbbed while her stomach wrung itself into an itty bitty knot. Everyone on this roof wielded power many times greater than her own. When one side prevailed, they’d turn their sights to her and their sights held nothing good and no promises of getting better.

This Belasco person already once ordered her death. Why she didn’t know, but he did. Maybe he was one of those “existence haters” the X-Men came across so very frequently. As she watched him rebuff the legendary Doctor Strange, the wayward Stepford sister didn’t want to be at the pointy eared, pale skinned man’s mercy. Something about his maniacal grin rubbed her the wrong way. If he won the battle, Esme had no doubts he’d do something utterly sadistic and violent to her--the man just screamed of evil, and in her point of view, few people ever pulled that off in a not funny, dead serious sort of way.

Now, should the X-Men win, Esme would have to deal with Ms. Frost and the attempted murder. While Ms. Frost didn’t scream evil, she did exude an icy, calmly violent, manipulative, vengeful quality feared and respected by everyone from the Professor to Jubilee. Esme saw brief glimpses of the White Queen the rare times she talked about the Hellions and that woman was not one to cross. If one did cross her, they better make sure she died because as long as she was able, she would get her revenge. Esme was so sure she’d kill Ms. Frost, but then again, she was also so sure the one she followed was Magneto. Life equaled a living hell.

A well calculated fear chilled her. She might’ve pined for Emma’s assistance a second ago, but that was desperation talking. Desperation tended to cloud better judgment.

Bad times. Esme didn’t like her possible fates.

Not fifty feet away, the emergency stairs beckoned her. Fifty feet of lightning, hand-to-hand combat, fireballs, spells, and other unfathomable activities barred her escape. Being a smart girl, Esme knew that if she didn’t risk this chance, she wouldn’t want to live another day.

Escape one way or another called to her.

Keeping low to the ground, the blonde scurried to the door. She dodged Ororo’s flailing body launched by Magneto’s punch. A hop carried her over the hole Ms. Dane made. Twenty feet away and Esme tasted the anticipation on her tongue. Brian Braddock almost tumbled into her but she put on a burst of speed, eluding the Emma-Brian-Betsy fight.

Success! She grabbed a hold of the doorknob just as someone from the other side opened it. The surprise, the door’s mass, and her own weakened body combined to knock her a few steps back. Unfortunately, those few steps led Esme straight into a mass of bricks, tripping her up and sending her to the floor.

As her head bounced, her eyes focused on a flock of birds flying down at her. Well, they weren’t exactly birds and they weren’t exactly flying at her in particular, but close enough. The closer they got, the more menacing them became, glowing red eyes and razor sharp canine, talons, and bony wings making their statements for them.

Mr. LeBeau shambled through the fire escape entering the fray instead of escaping it. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he bowled Esme over but self-preservation prevented her swift-

A second was all it took.

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

As Kitty tried to advance to the Empire State Building while ducking out of the line of sight of the demonic hordes, she saw a great black swarm of things dart to her destination from high above. When the first creature landed, a round object hurled off the side of the building and disappeared into nothingness, lost in the darkness.

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

Sophie gasped and clutched her chest. “Esme...”

Phoebe, Mindee, and Celeste hung their heads low. “She’s gone,” the trio said in unison.

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

Mystical energies emerged and coiled around Doctor Strange’s upper arms. The Sorcerer Supreme drew a deep breath and exhaled on the snaky, amorphous tendrils. His breath, coupled with an intricate hand gesture, dispelled the restraints; however, Belasco only used them as decoys.

He summoned a gigantic, disembodied, ethereal sword and spun it at his foe. Immediately, Strange ceased his flight spell and hoped to drop out of the attack’s path but it followed him. Restarting his flight ability, he whizzed across the landscape through broken buildings and tight alleyways. The sword didn’t mind following, steadfastly carving up obstacles impeding its progress. Behind him, things like streetlights, cement, and neon signs fell to the magical sword’s edge, distinct destructive songs reverberating as they struck the ground.

A narrow alley forced Strange to turn on his side. He bumped against poorly constructed balconies as he pushed away the distraction to put some distance between him and Belasco’s spell. He emerged on the other side of the alley and became a blur, exploding around a series of corners. The spinning sword didn’t slow a beat, instead cutting straight through a department store to take the shortest path to its target.

“Damn it,” the Sorcerer Supreme cussed. The cursed sword continued its breakneck pace, undaunted by anything. This spell needed to go and go now--he couldn’t even fathom the damage it would do if Belasco turned it on the X-Men.

He shot into the sky and readied an incantation to break Belasco’s concentration. Fortunately when he spared a glance at Battery Park, he noticed the Otherworld portal closing. Unfortunately, he noticed too late that the sky was filled with flying demons. A horned creature led a squad of his brothers to attack Strange, and before he could boom a warning to his allies atop the Empire State Building, a score of Belasco’s worst already landed and tore into the X-Men’s ranks.

Strange made a beeline to Belasco and shrugged off the nicks and bruises the demons peppered him with. The sword still followed and the evil magician still functioned, two things the good Doctor tried to rectify. If it meant meeting Belasco in close quarters combat, so be it.

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

They understood each other. They were bonded to each other. They went to unimaginable lengths for each other. Yet, despite her power and their history, Emma couldn’t so much as peek into Betsy’s mind. Something about Belasco and his mystical garbage locked away Betsy’s consciousness like a prisoner. With enough time, Emma could break through. Problem was she didn’t have time. For that matter, Betsy wasn’t cooperating.

The blonde needed protection and time, two things in short supply.

Emma swung her fist and tried to knockout Betsy in one blow, but the woman met her punch with one of her own. Their fists crashed into each other with a jaw-shaking vibration. Bone broke through Betsy’s hand; the hairline fissures in Emma’s arm lengthened.

Betsy didn’t hit on the level of Lorna Dane but she came disturbingly close.

“Brian,” said Emma as she pushed Betsy away, “I need you to occupy her. My body can’t take more of this punishment and killing your sister is not an option.”

And Brian Braddock, who’d just dusted himself off after being creamed by one of Betsy’s deadly kicks, acquiesced. “I’ll give you all the time you-”

An unnatural tearing and the snapping of vertebrae stopped their exchange. “Esme,” gasped Emma.

Betsy seized her opponents’ momentary lapse, raked Brian across the back, and shoved his head into Emma. The two lost their balance and muddled straight into the waiting arms of some recently arrived demons. Luckily, being the one in front, Emma received the brunt of the demons’ wrath and shook off the hits; admittedly, her body garnered more cracks but Brian, despite his superhuman fortitude, couldn’t have possibly survived the initial flurry.

The time spent regathering his wits wasn’t in vain. A ball of light gathered in his opened palm; he thrust his hand out and a flash of brilliance penetrated the demonic ranks, dissolving them into ash.

Being the ruler of the Otherworld had its perks.

Emma left Brian to deal with the endless onslaught. Nothing could help Esme now, and besides, didn’t Emma make her choice already? The blonde turned back around and found Betsy on her haunches, ready to spring but cautious all the same.

Still nothing across their rapport--she needed an in to Betsy’s head and Belasco wasn’t big on providing it. Supposing she did penetrate the barriers, Emma also needed protection, protection from mutants, Belasco, and whatever other things that decided to kill her.

Couldn’t count on Brian anymore because he was amply occupied not ten feet behind her. Storm? Storm, now lost in the chaos, was somewhere battling Magneto. Doctor Strange, if he wasn’t dead, probably kept Belasco himself busy. The Professor was all talk and no action, which on top of being crippled and collared, made him his typically useless self.

“Elisabeth, can you hear me?”

Betsy hissed and manifested a crude, unfocused version of her psychic knife.

Psychic knife. Emma’s eyes widened: like last time with the Shadow King, the pure expression of mental energy could be used to cross into Betsy’s mind. The in she wanted popped up, and now, the protection remained as the only obstacle.

Betsy pounced, knife leading and body fully extended. Emma shrunk aside, the manifestation’s edge missing her by the width of a hair. A diamond crusted hand chopped into Betsy’s lower ribs. Not even acknowledging the strike, Betsy slashed at Emma again, this time black tendrils snaking out and holding the blonde in one place. The blonde managed to stop a successful hit by blocking the other woman’s forearm.

Before Emma could even try to wiggle herself loose from Betsy’s demonic grasp, something slammed into her back with such force that she made a deep, and most likely permanent, impression on the metal, elevator doors. Whatever ambushed her didn’t let go, preferring to pound her over and over into the ground. Under the taxing beating, her body gave up a bunch of audible cracks.

Suddenly, a boom obliterated whatever straddled her back, leaving behind bloody entrails and loose bits of skin. Emma got to her knees and watched slivers of herself fall, diamond powdered and broken like crystal or glass. Betsy seemed enraged at her continued well-being and charged... only to be met by a makeshift staff wielded by a Cajun.

“Look like you could use a break, chere.”

Emma wasn’t sure who he talked to, but for once, she was glad to see his scruffy face and hear his mind-boggling accent. “We need a few moments alone, Gambit. Can you cover Betsy and myself?”

“I owe dat woman, Frost. If you can bring her back, I’d fight Apocalypse for you.”

She nodded and rose to her full height, chips of diamond flaking off of her. Despite a gunshot wound to the stomach, a legion of enemies around him, and hope of survival dimming by the second, Remy glanced at the precious stones and held back his inner t’ief. “Mon dieu, you droppin’ a fortune, you know dat?”

“Your obvious concern for my health warms my heart.”

“Remy could buy a nice yacht wit de stuff on de ground.”

“I didn’t need to know that, Gambit.”

“A big yacht, like de ones on dat show ‘bout de rich n’ famous.’”

“Not now, LeBeau.”

“Maybe call it ‘La Belle’ or ‘La Petite-’”

Emma peeled a fragment off her side and shoved it in Remy’s pocket. “Less talking, more covering.”

“Sorry,” he grinned roguishly, “tryin’ to lighten t’ings up.”

“Stop trying and start doing.”

“Oui, madame.”

Charging up a full house, he threw his staff into the air. The stick twirled and nailed a demoness’ chin, dislocating it and jamming a fang through its nose. Five cards soared into the clumps of monsters and ruptured, the concussive blast belying the small, thin projectiles. Singed and screaming things spiraled into the depths below, their last sound a dull splat on an already death filled street.

Remy clutched his stomach as fresh blood leaked from the corners of the cauterized spots. The staff dropped back into his awaiting hand and he used it to hold himself up. Demons all over Brian shifted themselves to Remy: a new toy joined the tussle. Another fistful of cards lit up in a glow of pink.

“Come one, come all,” he called out, his red pupils gleaming like rubies, “Dere’s enough o’ Remy to go ‘round.”

And like that, only Emma and Betsy remained. Well, what was left of Betsy anyway.

Emma searched high and low for some signs of intelligence or emotion. She hoped there was something to fight for. She prayed, truly prayed and let out a quiet call to whatever deity controlling this world that Betsy could be saved. She searched, she hoped, and she prayed, but nothing came of her troubles.

Thunder rumbled in the sky and a bolt of lightning lit the battlefield for one spectacularly brief second. Emma saw the madness in Betsy’s eyes and the horrible changes Belasco put her body through. A tiny voice in the back of her head asked a question about what to do if she did get Betsy back; after all, the background still contained a bleak life or death struggle.

Emma told the tiny voice to shut the fuck up.

Then she rushed Betsy.

The inky extensions made another swipe at the blonde’s limbs and she obliged them: they wrapped around her and squeezed with an unholy strength. Emma snatched Betsy’s arm, the one with the psychic knife still humming away on, and plunged it into her own forehead.

Unlike the last time, Betsy struck with no precision. Whereas before Psylocke surgically razed Emma’s defenses, this attack had the subtly of a sledgehammer. This approach proved equally effective when Emma’s body locked up and her eyes almost wanted to turn to mush and ooze out their sockets. Ideas disentangled themselves and became senseless abstractions. Nerves overloaded, firing at a constant rate and turning every feeling into a numbed blankness.

Floating. She floated in her own mindscape detached from the physical world. Baseless and defenseless, her mind reverted her self-image back to a naked, shivering form highlighted by a single spotlight and surrounded by nothing. Having been here before, Emma willed herself to overcome the paralyzing assault. She ordered her mind to comply but it didn’t respond.

From the darkness emerged Betsy dressed in her traditional X-Men garb. She looked real here, untainted by the mystical spells and Otherworld qualities infused in her. A brew of sadness and loathing bubbled in her eyes and brought hope to Emma. The hope doubled when she spoke, her voice dripping with a human sorrow.

*Emma, why?*

Why? *Why what?*

*Why did you leave me to die? I cried out for you and you abandoned me.* Closer Betsy walked, a gaping chunk of her chest suddenly disappearing. *Cut out by Vargas,* she elaborated when Emma’s eyes widened. Bruises in the shapes of fingers grew around her neck. *Belasco almost snapped my neck like a pencil. I’m dead, Emma, and it’s all your fault. Where were you when I needed you? I thought you loved me...*

Mind caught up between disgust and fear, Emma hedged away and tried to buy time for herself to recover. So vulnerable, she said the first thing that came to her. *I’m sorry, Betsy, I really-*

Betsy seemed to teleport, first there, now here, nose to nose and toe to toe. *Kind of late for ‘I’m sorry,’ isn’t it? Oh, look at me, I’m sorry I left you to the vultures. Here, having a fucking cookie.*

An enormous pressure pressed against Emma’s temples. The woman’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and her hands clutched the painful areas. Felt like a vice cranked away at her brain, bursting blood vessels and mashing gray matter. As she dropped to her knees, Betsy snared a handful of her blonde hair and pulled it back so they saw each other.

*We’ve been here before. What did Amahl Farouk say?* She paused for dramatic effect and smirked. *I remember now! ‘Isn’t that wonderful, Emma? You’re going to be eaten to death. It’s an appropriate way for someone like you to go.’*

Another more violent tug forced Emma’s eyes further open. Specks of blood running down her nose splashed across everything like a wide brushstroke.

*Farouk’s not here anymore,* pouted Betsy, *but Master enjoys a few psychic snacks as much as the next all powerful sorcerer.* Wickedness took over her serene features. *For our blossoming love’s sake, I’ll let you eat me before He finishes you off.*

A coarse, rough kiss consumed Emma. A tongue tried to find its way into her mouth but even now, weakened and hurt, she barred its entrance. *Elisabeth, fight him,* her disembodied voice implored, *You’ve seen his worst and it took more than that to break you.*

Breaking the kiss, Betsy’s clothes blinked out of existence. *There’s something you don’t get. Your Elisabeth can hear you but she can’t do anything about it. Both of you are at Master’s mercy and He can do anything He wants.*

To prove her point, she straightened up and forced Emma’s face into her crotch. And as anyone who ever forced the White Queen to do anything attested to, she always rebelled in her own way. This rebellion was easy, consisting of closing her mouth and pulling back with all her might.

Sometimes, she could be so predictable.

*That’s it Emma, fight your temptation like it matters. Try to be noble in your last moments because it’s all you have to repent for your pathetic excuse of a life.*

Getting no response, Betsy cast the blonde aside. Inside the dark background, a little something moved. The same spotlight which highlighted Emma now shined on Betsy. Silvery strands of string barely visible--invisible were it not for the light--glistened while they extended from every facet of Betsy’s soul. The little something in the darkness moved again as it fought to fully enter Emma’s mind.

The little something... what a misnomer. As Emma wiped her mouth clean, she noticed the little something was big: it only looked small because it was far off. The strings concerned her, and as the big something ventured closer, she got a better idea of what they did.

The big something had to be Belasco. What other pointy ear demon with orange hued skin existed anyway? His astral projection was huge, annoying, and unnecessary like his ego. Of course, the sorcerer pictured himself a puppeteer, playing his minions like well-tuned instruments. The strings extended from Betsy and into a large wooden cross, the cross held by none other than Belasco. He controlled Betsy like a marionette and used her mental avatar as nothing more than a mouthpiece.

Betsy? Captive. Belasco? Captor. Course of action? Destroy captor.

One question though. *How is Belasco here when he’s also outside?*

The strings jerked and Betsy laughed maniacally. *Magic,* she replied, the answer amusing the still emerging Belasco.

Fucking Belasco. Fucking magic. Fucking Betsy. If Emma wasn’t emotionally invested in the woman neither of them would ever be in this position. The fuming White Queen in her wanted to view this predicament as tit-for-tat repayment, or better yet, a way to keep Psylocke under her thumb should they get out of this alive. The White Queen never went the extra mile for anyone, especially when at cost to herself. The White Queen never put herself in a situation to lose.

The White Queen could shut up now.

Whatever she thought, whatever her protests, she couldn’t hide the empty spot in Emma’s head previously occupied by the bond to Betsy’s consciousness. It’d been nice having another soul to relate to, something neither White Queen nor Emma Grace Frost experienced. While they hadn’t broken the X-Men record for longest relationship, their closeness far outstripped the superficial attraction seen in most X-unions. Honestly, Hank wasn’t forthright with Trish Tilby, Alex knew (and now cared) little about Lorna’s life, and Warren, for all his suave moves and declarations of love, didn’t realize that Paige still looked at him like a hero.

As the girl’s former instructor, Emma caught such mannerisms.

Yes, yes, psychic integration helped Emma and Betsy’s cause. They hadn’t truly talked to each other until a handful of days ago, but in that time, they got to know each other better than parents knew their children, parents like Emma’s own parents, parents who were either drugged up or power-hungry, parents who didn’t spare their daughter a glance until she hit it big, parents who made her into the woman she hated, parents who didn’t deserve the title of parents.

Her barren mindscape erupted with activity, the lone spotlight widening to illuminated every inch of space. A sterile white canvassed her mind and enunciated Belasco’s monstrous features and Betsy’s nakedness. Broken pieces of her mind snapped back into form and her defenses returned, all unseen but all deadly. She refused to cloth herself in the White Queen’s curve hugging leathers, instead standing to face this intruder as her true self.

*This is it?* Belasco asked, unimpressed. *This is the mind of one of this realm’s most powerful telepaths? I’ve had apprentices with more inspiring abilities!*

*More inspiring? Yes,* she allowed. *More effective? I doubt it.*

The empty whiteness warped and hugged Belasco’s projection. Spikes, formed from the nothingness, lanced through him. The ground beneath him collapsed, dropping him into more of the same white surroundings. Psychic attacks came at him, origins unknown and results unpredictable.

*My mind. My rules.*

A tidal wave roared into Belasco and hammered him. Betsy’s body hung still while her puppeteer defended himself. Still, still like a corpse. Emma walked forward and stared into those lifeless eyes.

*You said you were in there,* the blonde whispered. *He couldn’t have killed you because nothing excites him more than agony. You have to come out, Elisabeth, or else everything I’ve put myself through will amount to nothing.*

No muscle moved. Ever the impatient woman, Emma slapped Betsy, desperation pushing her to become much more proactive. *Wake up, you imbecile! How dare you ignore me?! After all those accusations about leaving you to die, you do nothing when I slap the taste from your mouth? Answer me!*

A hollow smile and those same damnable, lifeless eyes answered Emma. The tiny voice she thought she squashed asked the million dollar question: What if Betsy was really dead? Emma felt nothing through their bond, Betsy wasn’t responding, and while Belasco was sadistic, he wasn’t stupid. What if he already made Betsy suffer enough and went through this just to get his shits and giggles off of another poor mutant?

What if she doomed herself by allowing Belasco into her mind?

Then Betsy’s eyes fluttered. *Too bad, so sad, game over. Master’s done playing and you’re going to die.*

The giant visage of Belasco shrugged off the globs of white pawing at him. He beat back the formless tidal wave, tearing it open to reveal the darkness which decorated Emma’s mindscape moments ago.

*You have my attention, mortal. I judged you too soon but that will not happen again.* A thin blaze of hellfire outlined his body and began burning away the parts of Emma fighting back. *I’ve lived for generations. I learned the mind’s craft before your forefathers were even thoughts in their forefather’s breeches. I’ve battled legendary mystics and won. A lowly mutant like yourself cannot hope to defeat me!*

Hellfire shot out of the ground. Pillars of the most blinding flames sprang up and seared away more of Emma. She backpedaled only to hear another column burst forth behind her. She rolled to the side but the hellfire kept coming, trailing her by a heartbeat. Eruptions shook her equilibrium and produced a splitting headache. The pain slowed her a hair, and that hair meant the difference between evading the next eruption or stepping right into it.

A glowing jet came to life under her feet. Where the White Queen once stood, now only hellfire remained.

The white nothing shattered into the insides of a volcano. Pulling Betsy up by her strings, Belasco gloated, the triumphant conqueror.

*The one you tried to protect beyond your brother is gone, Braddock child, but don’t worry: you will be there for his death too. Writhe, scream, curse, suffer--I see the pain in your soul and I am richer for it. So long as I control you, these things will come to you every eternal moment. I will break you to a point where no one can put you back together. Then, I will hang your spirit on my mantle like a trophy and watch the offspring of my dead nemesis, your father, gnash and slather like a wild beast.*

He turned her around and forced her to wave to the remains of Emma’s mind. *Say goodbye, Braddock child. Your lover is no more.*

While her outside beamed, Betsy’s inside writhed, screamed, cursed, and suffered. She didn’t want to say any of those hurtful, hateful things to Emma. She didn’t want to be Belasco’s tool to destroy this wonderful mind. She didn’t want to be a shell of herself, there to experience but never act. She didn’t want any of those things, but Belasco thought otherwise.

The worst part was not even getting to touch Emma one last time. Maybe, just maybe, if she touched that alabaster skin, she’d be able to channel her inner emotions and tell the woman how this thing looking like her wasn’t her. Maybe, but even the maybes died, ashes smoldering in this reproduction of Otherworld hell.

*I’ve wasted enough time in this place. There are heroes to bury and worlds to take over. It is time I left.*

Turning around, he disassociated his astral projection and reappeared.... reappeared here, exactly where he was, surrounded by the flaming remnants of Emma’s mind. Curious, he disassociated again and the result stayed the same: no movement, no Empire State Building, no image of his minions winning the fight over earth’s X-Men and their allies.

*What manner of sorcery is this?* Belasco grimaced. *Why can’t I leave this ruined mind?*

*Because I didn’t give you permission.*

Out of the flames stepped a figure resembling a female Human Torch. Every inch of her screamed heat but she retained her shape. More fires showered the area and consumed the untouched bits of white. As if hit by an earthquake, the entire place shook, reflecting the state of its mistress.

Emma repeated, *My mind. My rules.*

A long whip made of fire lashed at the giant’s knuckles. Belasco jerked away, and when he did, he left the strings attached to Betsy taut and exposed. The whip snapped again, and this time, the out of tune breaking of strings vibrated away like an old guitar giving up its ghost. Once held rigid but now freed, Betsy stumbled onto the blazing yet oddly soothing ground.

Crack went the whip as it slipped past Belasco’s arms and scored his cheek. Crack went the whip as it slapped his knee. Crack went whip as it felled him like a tree.

A palm reached out to Betsy. She couldn’t close the distance or communicate her thoughts, but at least she didn’t spurn the gesture under her tormentor’s watchful eye. She wanted to tell Emma to run while she still could because Belasco was too powerful, too crafty. She wanted to tell Emma to leave her behind, that she didn’t mind as long as said blonde telepath was safe.

Damn, she had it bad. Anchored in another’s mind, unable to defend herself, and at the mercy of one demonic magic user, she realized just how much she hurt not being able to be there for Emma. It all came back to Emma, didn’t it?

The palm cupped Betsy’s chin and tilted her head up.

Emma.

*I need you to defeat Belasco. We need to do what we did to the Shadow King again.*

Again? But what about all the trouble the act caused last time? What about the identity crisis and disjointed memories? What about their bond? Close proximity allowed the strongest sensations to flow through them. Too much, too fast--Emma tasted the distress in the unmoving woman.

To that, she only had one question. *Elisabeth, do you trust me?*

Of course Betsy trusted Emma... except on the topic of trusting Emma not to kill herself with her stubbornness. Nothing dissuaded that woman when she put her mind to something, and yes, Betsy gushed of gratefulness for the willingness to save her, but Emma needed to run and run fast. Didn’t she get it? Belasco was HERE in her mind and larger than life, the same Belasco who passed the time by making unsubjugated demons into his subjects!

Emma kissed her. *You fear him, I know. What he did to you I can’t change, but I can help you claim your revenge. How quickly you forget that you are my Elisabeth. No one, and I do mean no one, steals from me: some mendacious Otherworld boogie man isn’t going to get away because of who he is. I failed you once before but I will never again. So, do you trust me?*

The words about possession, responsibility, and trust dizzied Betsy. She didn’t quite know what to make of them because Emma was all over the place, her image exuding calm and cool but her actions and innermost thoughts a tumultuous storm.

Then Belasco jumped back into the scene and Betsy jumped with him. No, not jumped with him as in being under his control but jumped with him as in he jumped and she reacted. Limited usage of her mind meant good news, but the bad news was that she couldn’t do much except voice her much thought about urgings.

*Emma, you have to leave.*

A finger silenced her lips. *Don’t fear him. This is perhaps the only place where we can beat him. I will not squander this opportunity to silence the one that hurt you like he did. Answer me: do you trust me?*

What kind of question was that? *Of course I trust you but-*

*But nothing then. Join with me and we’ll sort out the questions later.*

A considerable and sinister looking sword materialized in Belasco’s hand. The test swings whistled through the columns of hellfire closing in on him and extinguished them like candles. Furious, his eyes glowed while he stomped toward the two women.

*Trust me,* said Emma, *Trust me and we can beat him.*

Betsy nodded and began converting herself into psychic energies to mingle with Emma. Belasco, quite adept at mental processes, didn’t like what he saw. He heaved the humongous sword over his head and hewed into Psylocke with the strength of Thor and all his Asgardian brethren combined. Gourds of molten flames rose up from either side of the sword’s impact and cased Emma’s mind into a momentary haze of chaos.

Here one second, gone the next--when everything returned to normal, Betsy wasn’t there anymore.

She was everywhere.

Dissolved into a cloudy, ephemeral mass, she stretched herself out and flowed into the niches of Emma. Elisabeth Braddock. Emma Frost. Elisabeth Frost. Emma Braddock. They swirled together into a potent package more powerful than two of world’s most skillful telepaths combined. A ribbon of light wrapped around Emma’s psychic form and clothed her into a white leather version of Betsy’s uniform.

Purple replaced platinum blonde. Steely blue eyes glinted with a predatory deadliness. Muscles toned themselves. The fires folded into a grassy valley flanked by snow capped mountains. Belasco’s sword lodged itself in the ground, and try as he might, he failed to wretch it loose.

Peace foreshadowed the impending violence.

The amalgam of Betsy and Emma raced up the edge of the stuck blade, up their enemy’s arm and right into his face. As she cocked her fist, a katana forged of pure psychic energies appeared in her readied hand. Thrust into the giant’s left eye and out fountained a wealth of power Belasco’s astral projection consolidated earlier.

Letting go, the wounded sorcerer swatted at his attacker, but she slipped over his shoulder and ran her weapon down the length of his back as she descended. Predictably, he fell, but he wasn’t useless. One of his hands flashed out and slapped the gloating woman straight into one of the mountains. So hard the hit that the katana phased out of existence and the woman herself left a full bodied imprint in the stone.

With a hand over his absent eye and his permanent scowl broaching hellish proportions, Belasco climbed upright and bared his teeth at the one who hurt him. *Another wonderful little trick, mortal, but it is time to do away with you forever!*

*You’ve said that before,* the voices of Betsy and Emma said as one, *We are still here and waiting for your worst.*

Clouds above burst into flames. The wail of countless souls broke into Emma’s consciousness and shook the serene valley to its core. Mountains split and crumbled; snow melted into flooding waves.

*If I cannot destroy your astral body, then I will destroy your mind.*

His foot stomped and from that point emanated a series of gaping fissures. Rocks tumbled into the cracks and never returned. Belasco extended a set of claws on of his hands and lumbered toward his dispassionate target.

Not that the overall destruction of her mindscape didn’t hurt, but Emma preferred keeping a poker face whenever possible. Buoyed by Betsy’s powers, she kept herself and them together, never revealing the pain or the concentration.

Concentration? Yes, well, not like they weren’t up to something.

The behemoth reached her, roared, and brought him claws down. Like a ninja, she jumped straight into the air and out of the way. From behind, Belasco’s sword came loose. Under Betsy and Emma’s command, it hovered a split second and then spun end over end as if the thrown by the pommel. Belasco had enough time to look up at the woman before the blade passed through him and buried itself in an untouched mountainside.

He gargled and twitched but his expression stayed the same. The shaking, destruction, fires, and pandemonium paused to take in what just happened. One half of Belasco fell forward while the other half tipped on its side. The body vaporized into energy, energy which Emma and Betsy drank like water.

And like that, the singular expression of them collapsed, each woman too exhausted to continue holding their selves together. Like last time, the image fuzzed out of focus and replaced it with their separate astral projections lying on the mutilated ground.

Emma glanced at Betsy. *I can feel you again.*

*The bond is back.*

Tiredly, the blonde brushed aside a few stray hairs. *I’d like to relax, but outside, there’s a new battle to fight.*

She prepared to rejoin the physical world only to be stopped by Betsy’s touch. *Thank you, Emma.*

*It’s not something you wouldn’t do for me.*

*You’re right, but that doesn’t make me any less thankful.*

*As you so righteously showed tonight. You’re welcome, Elisabeth, and you have my thanks as well.*

She resumed her departure but Betsy turned her around and melded their lips together. The thundering protests of her frazzled mind yielded to the warmth converging on the lower regions of her body. Betsy kissed her and kissed her with an unbridled passion that was not only overwhelming but also disconcerting in its strength.

The passion of battle, victory, and near-death smoldered between them, heightening their infantile attraction to each other. Though their love was young and immature, it had the strength of one well nurtured and long lived. For both women, release--never mind a true relationship--had been too long ago, perhaps even never ago. The magnetic pull and the unstoppable reactions tumbling through Emma scared her, yet she didn’t want this kiss to stop.

Half of Betsy’s fears came to fruition: the high of their struggles translated into a rabid love teetering on the edge of its demise. Burnout, most people called it; others labeled it as the heat of the moment. The rational side of Betsy yelled and stomped and flailed and shouted for her to slow down, but the other parts of Betsy glared at the dissenting little thing and knocked it unconscious. Analyzing a possibility was one thing, but living through the scenario was another.

The lure of everything Emma inebriated her. The plush lips and sinfully soft skin begged for attention. Passion? Betsy wore her passion here on her sleeve, on her mouth, on every inch of astral flesh complementing Emma’s curves. After another trip through Belasco’s hands, she needed to feel alive and loved: loving Emma, especially now, was too easy. Stop? No, she couldn’t stop. She knew this was the wrong time, the wrong place, and probably the wrong pace, but she couldn’t stop.

Need pulsed through their bond and Emma savored it. The raw emotions and unwavering desire made the blonde feel special and, for lack of a better term, fed her ego. Betsy held her like a life preserver, like an irreplaceable relic, like her own existence. Importance, devotion, and undiluted passion swayed Emma into a state of bliss, every avenue of herself satisfied at this particular moment.

She felt loved.

She felt needed.

She felt cherished.

She felt worshiped.

She felt understood.

What more could a girl ask for?

Then from nowhere and everywhere came *I love you.*

Whack. Emma lost her grip on her astral form and tunneled back into the physical world as if strapped to a homicidal roller coaster. Betsy lay atop of her, eyes closed and features still semi-demonic. Drenched in red, Gambit looked like the Kool-Aid man being assaulted by his many fans. Somewhere through the chaos was supposed to be everyone else but everyone else didn’t matter.

Emma’s breath caught. Three little words sent her scrambling. Of course the words existed and existed between them, but to hear them voiced gave them a new reality which the White Queen wasn’t used to. For better or for worse, Emma could accept being loved, but loving others she had a problem with. Loving someone meant giving part of herself away. Loving someone meant being there for them. Loving someone meant being committed.

I love you. Three little words made her relationship with Betsy real. No, being loved didn’t scare her. She’d used one-sided love many times, always reaping the rewards but never reciprocating. What did was her propensity to return that love. Unwittingly, Emma had done all the things a person would do for the one she loved.

She gave her secrets away, the ones about her family and her life outside of mutanthood. She hounded Betsy, hounded her until their issues were resolved and their selves were put back together. She committed herself, braving the Otherworld’s worst to make up for not being there for Betsy.

No, Emma didn’t fear Betsy’s affections: Emma feared her own strong response. To suddenly be in love and not realize it amounted to leaping before she looked or investing in a corporation without prior research. The “I love you” brought Emma back to earth and made her reevaluate what happened.

Conclusion? Emma was off-her-rocker in love, out-of-her-mind in love and she didn’t care. Now, if only the legions of demons would cooperate and leave both of them to sort out everything.

What the hell, not like she was going to be among the living for long, diamond body or no. As Betsy opened her muddled eyes, Emma whispered, “I love you too.”

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

Doctor Strange. The name implied a familiarity to the outlandish and, well, strange. Over his long tenure as Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen had been privy to a bevy of mind-bending, unexplainable phenomena. Despite his vast experiences and categorical knowledge of the weird, a handful of happenings still eluded or confounded him.

Take Belasco as a perfect example. Objectively, the demon was gifted in every form of combat: he’d just as easily gut someone with a scythe as rot their insides with a spell. Vast training and experience allowed him to excel on multiple fronts at the same time. Why, Strange himself had once witnessed the magnus cut down a handful of warriors, telepathically fry another sorcerer’s mind, and summon a large demon to do his bidding all at the same time.

Talk about multitasking.

So when in the midst of throwing close range spells at each other, Doctor Strange got the surprise of his life when Belasco went rigid, clutched his bleeding ears, and screamed in unadulterated agony. The other demons looked at their master, concern and fear on their faces. The homing sword, the same one which made quick passes every few seconds to try and cut off Strange’s head, spun out of control into the hosts of violent Otherworld denizens.

Why the surprise? Well, because Strange did nothing to result in this turn of events. However, he saved the detailed analysis for later when said mystical twirling device of doom glanced off the side of a building and headed straight for him. Strange rolled his eyes and flew away, resigned to another round of evasion.

But the sword didn’t follow him. Instead, though wobbling and slowing, it came to a screeching halt half buried in Belasco’s skull. The entire area shut down, quiet as they gazed upon the sight. Eyes glossy and still, the Otherworld warlord dropped from the sky and into the murky darkness below, his body descending faster than the streaks of blood flowing from his fatal wound like miniature, gravity defying rivers.

Crash went his body as it collapsed the roof of a burnt car.

A great shrill drowned the night. Fury of the worst kind embraced the remaining demons. They became suicidal, charging as one and not caring to adjust their tactics. Somewhat battered, Strange couldn’t hold off the waves and waves of opponents, and eventually, two of them latched onto his legs and deemed it to necessary to either yank his legs off to send him on a one-way meeting to the cement.

Plummeting, the Sorcerer Supreme had a clear view of Brian Braddock being gashed from all sides. He looked tired, and every new set of marks staggered him further as he approached the limit of his superhuman endurance. Gambit did even worse: only the force of his dwindling kinetic explosions kept him alive and even then probably not for long. Emma and Betsy appeared dead already, the two lying atop each other in a picture still frame. Storm was on her way to joining them, the missing chunk in her side and the continued pummeling by the Magneto look-alike making her quieter by the second.

A spark broke through the demonic legions and lit up the night sky. Far away off in the horizon, a ball of fire hurled toward the Empire State Building at an unbelievable speed. On closer inspection, the figure wasn’t a ball but rather a bird, a huge bird composed of pure, awe-inspiring flames. Though he never saw it firsthand before, Doctor Strange guessed that this was the glorious Phoenix, the same one which confounded his friend Charles to no ends, the same force that could make--or break--a galaxy with a single thought.

The bird soared high above and increased its size, eventually taking up the entire Manhattan skyline. Every eye glued itself onto the divine manifestation, and for a moment, every one held their breaths. In the middle floated four people: X’ian, Rachel, Logan, and Jean. The eldest woman smiled at everything that was beneath her remarkable aura. She looked... peaceful, like one who knew and was comfortable with her fate.

The coming seconds, Doctor Strange decided, would be extremely interesting.

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

“Mom, what happened to Manhattan?”

“A great tragedy.”

“No shit, Jeanie. Never thought I’d live to see the day when the Big Apple would look a flamin’ lot like Tombstone. Place looks more fucked up than an aftermath o’ Cable’s fights with Stryfe.”

“Logan, watch your language. My daughter is standing next to you.”

“The kid’s heard worse, Red, tons worse. Now, you gonna fill us in on the cosmic details or are we just whistlin’ in the dark?”

“Thousands of lives have been lost today all in the name of one person’s revenge. Bright futures have been snuffed out and existence has changed in a fundamental way. After tonight, the mutant-human relationship will never be the same. After tonight, the Professor’s dream will be set back innumerable years. After tonight, the X-Men will be needed more than ever.

“The Phoenix has made its judgment. While the wounds run deep, they are only wounds: the world has the opportunity to heal and within that healing process, better itself. The journey will be difficult, but the bonds tempered in these trying times can become the foundation for a brighter tomorrow.”

“What don’t kill ya only makes ya stronger.”

“No, whatever doesn’t kill you only hurts a lot.”

“X’ian! That was really negative of you.”

“Sorry Rachel but it’s true.”

Jean beamed at her three companions. “From the ashes, another world will rise. The wrongs of today cannot be undone but they can, and must be, prevented from happening again. All of you have a role to play; all of you must work together to uphold the Phoenix’s judgment.”

“Us? What ‘bout you, Red?”

“I am the judge, Logan. I’ve already interfered too much because I love all of you so. I must leave the world’s destiny in your hands, otherwise, whatever comes to pass will be nothing more than a reflection of what I want it to be, not what it was meant to be.”

“Wait just a damned minute-”

“This is as far as the future goes. Every moment from now on will be a product of your hands, not Destiny’s, not Apocalypse’s, not anyone else’s. The future ends now and your present begins.”

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

They were losing Kurt. Hank tried his best with Forge’s futuristic first aid kit but nothing worked. Somehow, the inadvertent head-to-head contact with Kevin Ford had decayed a chunk of his cerebral cortex, the outermost region of the brain responsible for memory, higher thought, and sensory analysis. Due to the blow and decay, blood began stagnating inside Kurt’s cranium, exerting undue pressure on certain regions and robbing many areas of oxygen.

He slipped in and out of consciousness while Hank fussed and mussed. Though Forge equipped his kit with the best instruments, he geared most of it toward treating punctures and burns, not brain trauma. Then again, who ever heard of a brain surgery kit? Added to the lack of proper tools were Hank’s meaty, unwieldy hands courtesy of Tessa, her jumpstart power, and his own secondary mutation.

No one else had the expertise, not Scott, not Forge, not Jubilee, and not any of the students. Hank had the knowledge but not a means. As a doctor, he couldn’t gather himself to talk someone else through the procedure: the chance for failure was just too great.

Do no harm. Damn his fat digits, failing him again. All he could do now was hope, and when treating physical trauma to the brain, hope didn’t cut it.

“Jean.”

Everyone gathered in the dilapidated husk of the building spared Scott a glance. He seemed fixated on the windows despite strict instructions from none other but himself to stay hidden and avoid confrontation while Hank dealt with Kurt.

“Down with you,” said Forge, putting a hand on the fearless leader’s shoulder, “Jean might be out there but getting us noticed isn’t warranted.”

“No, Jean, she’s-”

The Phoenix illuminated the depressing night and chased away the shadows like naughty preschoolers. Flames wove into their sanctuary and touched every one present, some caresses, some pats, some formless smiles, and to Scott, a kiss, one passionate, loving, and sad all at once. While these X-Men gaped at the Phoenix’s power, a cocoon of energy spun around Kurt and burned.

Dead skin peeled away. Internal bruising scattered. Decrepit gray matter respawned. Where bone was once weak it now became strong. Blood flowed again, precious air bringing him back from the verge of a coma.

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

Warren feebly kicked at the hand holding his right ankle. His enhanced physiology gifted him with stronger but lighter bones fit for flight, but the iron grip crushed his leg like a tin can. Forward the demon pulled as it tried to fit a large Warren through a small hole. Small hole? Where did the small hole come from? Well, as hard as Bobby worked, even he couldn’t keep repairing his ice dome fast enough for it to withstand the combined efforts of Otherworld’s worst.

A strong armed individual punched a hole through the ice and the rest wasn’t far behind, at least according to their commotions.

“Hold on, Warren!”

A cold, white beam streaked into the hole and blindsided the demon who had its hand on Warren. The thing let go: one crisis adverted but the time spent on the split second diversion weakened the already weakening dome, allowing those outside to shatter a good sized opening in the top.

Ugly. The word spun around in Bobby’s head like a child after a case of Mountain Dew. If having rotting fangs, unsightly bulges, and puss spewing warts weren’t enough, this... this... personification of ugly had a hunchback, brown and green slime all over him, hairs where hairs shouldn’t be, blacked nails, old people’s skin, and a second mouth on its forehead. On its forehead! And the little mini-mouth gurgled and hissed even more than its big brother!

What an ugly son of a bitch. Or was this a woman? What an ugly bitch? Did it have a gender? Crap.

Bobby felt the urge to upchuck his dinner. Fortunately, he realized that the only thing he had for dinner was Tessa so he didn’t have to taste his typical repast of tacos, applesauce, fried rice, and rainbow sherbet Gerber-baby style.

Yeah, fried rice wasn’t too good half digested, but rainbow sherbet and applesauce, whew, that tasted good even after hanging a u-turn on the esophagus expressway.

That’s it, think about the culinary viability of vomit instead of looking at vomit given life. Bobby blasted the newly christened Ugly in the face and while watching he, she, or it tumble out of sight was fun, watching Ugly’s inbred siblings--Fugly and Scrambledeggwithsteaksauceface--come up to the batter’s box wasn’t.

They lunged, he blasted, more of the dome collapsed. Ugly’s extended family crashed the party, and for once, Iceman didn’t have enough ice for them all. As he augmented his body to drive back these things as much as possible, a cool fire wrapped around the dome’s remains and painted the surroundings with an orange tint. Every demon the fire touched got snuffed out of existence, and this wasn’t the normal, physical snuff out of existence: this was a gone-from-earth-without-a-trace-not-even-a-chance-to-scream snuff out of existence.

In his interesting life, Bobby had only seen this kind of fire once, and that one time ended badly. “What the fuck?”

The fire, after twirling around Warren, spoke to him like God speaking to Moses. “Calm down Bobby, I’m right here.”

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

“Mama!” Rogue called out again as she flew in the air. The ruins of Battery Park stared back at her, unwilling to give up any information. Everything was so dark after the portal closed, like a desert ghost town or dried up oasis.

Mystique didn’t make finding her easy: her dark blue skin blended into the night and unintentionally hid her... assuming the portal didn’t suck her in.

Rogue shook her head to get rid of the terrible thought. She was there for lots of the Illyana’s troubles and though she had problems with many people in her life, she wouldn’t wish the younger Rasputin’s fate on anyone else.

Hence the attempts to embrace Betsy. Hence the mounting dread in the pit of her stomach. Always the story with Mystique: here today, gone tomorrow, though not always of her volition. Last thing Rogue wanted now was to have her mama gone again. They had things to discuss, concerns to resolve, and if all went well, a relationship to salvage.

The little bit she read of Irene’s last diary painted her parents as loving and compassionate, a huge departure from their apparently hostile, uncaring façade. She hoped... actually, hoped was too strong a word. She wanted the diary to be true.

However, true or not, it wouldn’t make a difference if Mystique was missing or dead.

“Mama!”

When her voice died down, the Phoenix--the PHOENIX!--hugged the city like a mother hen. The few times she witnessed the manifestation, bad things happened: worlds ended, nefarious plans hatched, and Shi’ar got all up in arms. On the plus side, the sudden brightness reveled her mother below. Even high up here Rogue saw the wounds on her mother and cringed.

“Go to her.”

That voice! “Jean?”

The Phoenix’s glory touched her hand and gently pulled her down, down to the motionless Mystique. “She needs you.”

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

Alex got Sam breathing again but the elder Guthrie didn’t stir.

“He ain’t dead!” yelled Paige as she wriggled in her bonds, “Sam! Say somethin’!”

Bishop had a better idea. “Havok, release us so we can be of assistance.”

Before Alex could answer, an orange light wrapped around their eyes and separated them visually from each other. Fires burned away the dreaded mutant collars, pitiful ashes of synthetic material and circuitry rolling onto and off of their shoulders like loose lint. Ice pooled at their feet and metal unwound itself: total kinetic control, and Jean exerted a miniscule fraction of the ability. With nothing but a dismissive thought, she freed the three and proceeded to save the fourth.

“Wake up, Sam, it’s not your time yet.”

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

A mouth bit through her sword arm. Screaming, Amanda struck the monster in its head but the stubby little think kept its powerful jaws clenched. Others saw Limbo’s mistress in trouble and drooled to be the one to strike the killing blow. One of the opportunistic vultures, a demon with a single, sharp horn, lowered his head, closed its eyes, and charged into Amanda. The soft tearing of flesh and the crackle of brittle bone satisfied its ears.

When it opened its eyes, it expected to see a human impaled on its horn. What it found instead was its mouthy ally dead, teeth still clenched through Magik’s arm. The wily magician had used her attacker as a shield! The horned one recognized this fact too late: a brick red fist came from the side and pulverized its face.

Mikey smiled smugly. That arrogant lady owed him now. While he never proclaimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, Mikey noticed clot when he saw it. Some weak person would never be the focus of so many of these “demons.” Hell, some weak person would never be able to fight off these things. Her sure strides pegged her as a woman who got her way all the time whether by coercion or force.

Yeah, Mikey knew power when he saw it and these superhero types were the same: headstrong and honor bound. He had a get out of jail free card now; whatever he did thirty minutes ago didn’t matter anymore. With a word from this lady, people would probably be calling him a hero too.

Well, that’s if he lived, which at the moment wasn’t a guarantee.

Not used to these kinds of massive fights, Mikey thought himself safe While the bulky, brick red bruiser gloated, demons moved. A pair of them crashed against the back of Mikey’s knees. Once brought low, others piled on top of him. Mikey’s mutations--enhanced strength, thickened skin, and the cool color pigment--allowed him to cast aside his first few attackers. They kept coming, attracted by the prospect of death and food.

And Amanda tried to save Mikey, she really did. Not her fault she had trouble keeping herself alive. What was that line from that movie, Shawshank Redemption? “Sudden, serious trauma causes the victim to bite down hard. In fact, I hear the bite reflex is so strong they have to pry the victim’s jaw open with a crowbar.”

Amanda didn’t have a crowbar handy--teeth brushed against bone. The world got lighter, slower, and her soulsword, wielded in her off-hand now, became heavy. Demons, demons all around and she couldn’t fight them off anymore. A quickly mumbled spell sent a conical blast of mystical energies around her, enough to push back the masses but not enough to hurt them in the slightest.

The demons pushed away from Mikey. Blood covered his brick red body, missing chunks and gleaming white bone showing through. Terror overcame Amanda: that was going to be her in a few seconds. These things draped themselves on the mutant for mere moments, and in that time, they chewed him into a half-consumed snack.

She’d seen it happen before but she never thought she’d be in a position for this to befall her. As she wove another spell, a small, doll-like creature jumped at her neck. She backhanded the bouncy fellow away, delaying her spell and letting others close in.

Had she been less of a heroine, Amanda would’ve teleported away to Limbo and healed herself. However, she understood that she was the only line of defense between these cannibalistic misfits and the scared survivors upstairs. She couldn’t leave not because she wasn’t able but because her conscience wouldn’t allow it.

Being the ruler of Limbo, she expected a fate like this one day. Fighting in the Otherworld wasn’t exactly simple or beautiful. Didn’t like it, but the thought rooted itself in the back of her mind. The innocents had no inklings of this grizzle death, and as long as Amanda still breathed, they didn’t need to know about it.

Which was why she stood tall and faced those lunging demons with a staunch, quiet determination. There were worse fates than dying for others, though few quite so painful, gruesome, and just overall disturbing. Morbidly, Amanda wondered if anyone would be able to identify her remains when all was said and done.

A fiery, rolling cloud crested the earthen barrier Meggan created. Everything it touched it wiped out of existence, the demons not even getting a chance to gutturally voice their protests. The destructiveness radiating off the flames gave no comfort to Amanda. Probably one of Belasco’s impressive spells, cast in annoyance to kill everyone not himself.

When the fire hit her, the dead demon on her arm melted away. Bone reknit itself while veins stretched, connected, and pumped. Muscles covered the bones, themselves covered by growing flesh. Where she expected nothingness, she got a warming peace.

Meggan, who Amanda lost sight of mid-battle, was the only other person not burned away. “What is this?” the blonde gasped, a child’s wonder in her eyes. “It’s so... so...”

“Hello Meggan, Amanda.”

“Oh, it’s Jean! Hi Jean!”

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

Fantomex started. His jaw creaked like something awful and a bad case of double vision stalked him. Lower front teeth felt loose, too loose for comfort. Hung over--if he had to sum up how he felt, that’s how he’d put it. All he wanted now was a shot of morphine and a two month vacation but that was asking too much.

Probably couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the vacation after almost getting his head knocked off.

Right, head knocked off. One of the marks almost put him six feet under with a wallop. And why was his surroundings swamped? Double vision notwithstanding, a good bunch of people made their homes up here. What happened to the X-Men prisoners? How about Magneto and his flunkies? Shit, where was Magneto? Fantomex had express orders (not to mention a significant part of his payment) to protect Magneto at all cost.

His employer wouldn’t be happy, no sir, not happy at all.

The words “pay cut” rang through his stuffed up head. Two other words quickly followed: “imminent doom.” Upon closer inspection, everyone on the roof who didn’t have decaying flesh, rancid body odor, mean-looking teeth, or glowing red eyes was up shit creek without a boat or paddle.

Ororo Munroe--better known as Storm, leader of the globetrotting Xtreme X-Men--hung limply on a guard rail, her snow white hair splattered with dark blotches and streaks, probably blood. Monsters converged on a muscle bound man, the same man who punched Fantomex into next week. Through he looked well off compared to Storm, he tired, his strikes skipping half a beat after every few seconds.

Yup, imminent doom, and if anything caught Fantomex sneaking peeks here and there, he’d be facing it too.

Time to blow this joint.

E.V.A., dormant till now, opened a hatch and let a small package slip to the ground, unnoticed. In it was a premium blend of Weapons Plus’ newest explosives. Though diminutive, two pounds of the classified, experimental material could carve away an entire New York city block. Whoever said great things couldn’t come in small packages?

Sensing his chance, Fantomex crawled to the ledge. He watched as two women--a diamond Emma Frost and a screwed up looking Elisabeth Braddock--both lying on the ground, stirred and snatched the attention of their enemies. Perfect diversion to cover his own escape.

Up and over the ledge he jumped. E.V.A. took off and dove down, her speed aided by her greater mass. Spreading his arms out slowed his fall, enough for his vessel to swoop in under him and pick him up before he became the newest menu item at the Roadkill Café.

“Get me outta here,” the man bit out, jaw sore and swelling. “The job’s gone to hell.”

There went his payday; stood to reason he required payback. From his pocket came a remote control, the detonator for his Weapons Plus special delivery. The large red button lit up showing that the device was indeed armed.

He hated failing. Showed he was human, but damn it, he wasn’t human. He was better than human, better than mutant. Failure reminded him of his shortcomings and the superiority of others.

With a growl and a fury all to its own, Fantomex pressed the red button...

... just as Kitty Pryde, baby and camerawoman still in tow, phased onto the roof of the Empire State Building and straight through the present Fantomex left behind. The electronics, disrupted by Kitty’s ghostly passage, fizzled and frazzled, emitting smoke as it short circuited.

Without guidance, the charges didn’t explode. Without an explosion, Fantomex frowned at his remote. “The hell’s wrong with this thing?”

He banged the little black device against his knee once, twice, and-

The sky lit up as if someone pulled the sun into position.

“Unidentified presence,” E.V.A. squawked, “Brace yourse-”

The Phoenix snatched the bug-like ship into its massive talons. Here today, gone tomorrow--when the Phoenix stretched its appendages again, nothing remained. Oh no, it didn’t stop there though, not by a long shot. It raked its massive limbs across the top of the Empire State Building, dealing help and harm with impunity.

In one stroke, Storm’s empty eyes regained its glassy awareness and the false Magneto perished in a self-contained bonfire. The cracks in Emma’s body fused together, missing shards of her suddenly finding themselves back where they belonged. Remy stopped bleeding not because he couldn’t bleed anymore but because the healing fire filled his deep gashes and made him fine again. Doctor Strange stopped falling when the edge’s of the Phoenix’s manifestation curled around the demons dragging him down and disincorporated them. As Brian swung his fist into another one of his opponents, it puffed away in a cloud of ash and almost caused him to stumble onto his face. Being superhero material, he got away with looking like a drunken idiot but remaining on his feet. The Professor, struggling with his collar, found it missing and his vast powers returned to him.

And Betsy... the Phoenix had something special for dear Betsy, burning away her demonic appendages and whisking her off into a nowhere framed by the distinct fiery bird and accented by two red heads nestled in its bosom, Rachel and Jean.

“Geez, you look terrible.”

Reinvigorated by the cosmic forces at work, Betsy self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks Rachel, I needed to know that.”

Torn clothes mended and dirt disappeared, leaving Betsy appearing--and feeling--much more at ease. Where gaping wounds once showed like badges, immaculate skin took its place. Jean flashed an apologetic smile for both the oversight and her daughter’s comment. “Feeling better?”

“Not really. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Since when has it not been complicated?”

A chuckle escaped Jean. “Emma is already rubbing off on you.”

The knowing tone behind her sentence stirred a reflexive defense. “She calls it business acumen and women’s intuition.”

To that, Rachel scrunched her forehead. “Doesn’t she mean sarcasm and cynicism?”

“Now, now,” calmed Jean in a most motherly way, “Time is running short and I still have to finish my goodbyes.”

Goodbyes? The significance stopped Betsy in her tracks. “Jean, this is not time to be joking around.”

“I’m not joking, Betsy, and that’s why I brought both of you here. The Phoenix finished the task it set out to do and is about to leave. It’s giving me the chance to impart some last words to those I hold dear, so I’m making the most of it.”

“Mom, you’re talking to other people at the same time? How many?”

“Too many,” sighed Jean, “I don’t have the time to say everything I want to, but at least it’s more than what many others get.”

Confused, Betsy asked, “What’s going on? What happened to you?”

“Betsy, only you and Rachel have ever felt the true vastness of the Phoenix. I... I... I can’t explain it adequately to everyone else who hasn’t wielded its strength. To borrow from Plato, the Phoenix is a Form given substance. It is justice, its concept and its execution. It is rebirth, and with it, all the associations of life and death. While the Form itself will always be everywhere, the substance can only reside in one place, there to reinforce its Form wherever it is weakest.

“Like I told Logan, the Phoenix has reached a judgment about this world. Now, it is needed elsewhere.” She paused to massage the bridge of her nose. “I am needed elsewhere. I cannot remain here any longer or I will risk turning everything I’ve come to love into a twisted idealization of my basest desires. My presence alone has already put a strain on the world and it doesn’t need any more.”

Tasting the Phoenix--the memory seemed like one in another life. However, no matter how long it was, Betsy could never forget the searing, all-consuming power that threatened to pass onto her. Its very presence almost warped her mind. Come to think about it, its very presence had warped the minds of others, others like the Hellfire Club’s own Mastermind. Just a touch of the essence connected him to the cosmos and made him insane, not that insanity was a long stretch for the man, but still...

Power so strong couldn’t be fully contained. When a mere thought could alter the fate of civilizations, remaining anywhere too long spelled trouble. Anyone who never brushed against the Phoenix would find the sentiment preposterous; after all, god-like power meant god-like control too, right?

Wrong.

Jean could control the Phoenix but the Phoenix couldn’t control Jean. It was a presence molded into the body and spirit that was Jean. It conformed to the red head’s desires, not the other way around. Whatever the host, the temple for this awesome power, wanted, the Phoenix made into reality. Look at Rachel and what happened to her even when she did possess the cosmic entity: Ahab, her slaver in the distant and extinct future, imposed his will upon her to command the Phoenix.

Not to say it had no will of its own, but what it did depended mainly upon its host. The potential for abuse? Extraordinary. The potential for good? Likewise. Feast or famine hinged on the host.

And it couldn’t have picked a better host than Jean. Self-sacrificing, benevolent, intelligent, wise, responsible, fair--the woman had her weaknesses but her strengths far outstripped her shortcomings. This woman would give up everything for the ones she loved, and right here, right now, though she could disregard her altruistic leanings, she was about to leave so others would have a chance to lead their own lives.

Betsy didn’t understand the intricacies of the Phoenix; she understood its power. She respected it, rightfully feared it, and Jean called upon her to drudge up the understanding.

“I won’t pretend I know any of this as well as you or Rachel,” said Betsy, “but what can you say to me and her that you can’t say to everyone else? And in private no less?”

“I need to ask a favor, one from each of you.”

Rachel, who stayed oddly silent till now, folded her arms and stared at her mom. “You don’t need to even ask, Mom. Bad enough I’m watching you go, I’m not going to make things worse by telling you no.”

“And you, Betsy?”

“Between our friendship and my personal debt to you, I can’t refuse.”

She let out a small breath. A woman who felt the universe’s pulse was anxious? Huh, imagine that. Jean faced her daughter first.

They shared many of the same features, attributes, and mentalities. Though their lives diverged, the bond between mother and daughter couldn’t be denied. Pearly white fingers framed a flushed face like an artisan examining her masterpiece for one last time before parting with it. Jean loved her children with a scary fierceness, but of them all, she demonstrated that love to Rachel the most.

It wasn’t favoritism but rather an apology for past mistakes. There was a time when Jean didn’t even acknowledge Rachel because she had no part of her upbringing. Those days, however, were long gone, but Jean still felt the tiniest pin pricks of guilt. From this guilt blossomed a relationship stronger than either anticipated--it wasn’t an unwelcome revelation given the older woman’s maternal instincts.

Jean pulled her daughter into a strong embrace. “I need you to look after your father, Rachel. The two of you have never been very close, but you have to put that aside. He is a stubborn man who retreats into himself to deal with his emotions, and if no one is there to pick him up, he’ll stay in his misery. I’m asking you as your mother and his wife: follow him when he retreats and try your hardest to let him know he’s not alone.”

“He’s not alone though,” Rachel insisted. “You’re still here. The Phoenix won’t throw you away like that. I know it doesn’t work that way. It’ll protect you!”

“I may observe but I cannot interfere. No matter how much pain your father is in, I can’t even whisper into his mind that I’m watching over him. To the world, after tonight, I will be gone--that is the best way. In some aspects, it allows others to move on. If I leave a possibility of my return, those like your father will always live in this moment and never let go.”

“You want me to lie to everyone so they’ll forget about you?”

“No, I want you to be there for your father.”

“And what about telling people you’re dead and gone?”

Kissing her daughter’s forehead, Jean whispered, “You’re a grown girl. Do what feels right and I’ll approve.”

“But Mom-”

“Do what feels right.”

Then she turned to Betsy. “I’m afraid the favor I’m asking of you is more difficult than Rachel’s.”

“Worse than dealing with Scott’s self-pity tantrum? My, how am I going to survive?”

One spoon of Betsy, one spoon of Emma, and mix well--that was the recipe to the woman half-smirking, half-tearing up in front of Jean. The red head hated to do this to her friend and dump her from one fire to the next, but of all the X-Men, she was the best suited to the task at hand.

What task, you ask?

“I need you to keep the X-Men together.”

Betsy wasn’t so sure. “Me? Jean, it’s only been a week since I figured out I wasn’t lying in a coffin. I can feel it in people’s mind when they look at me: they’re doubtful at who I am. Keep the X-Men together? I can barely keep myself together.”

“You are the only one who can.”

“Why not Logan? Why not Emma? Why not Ororo? What about Rogue? Did I forget about the Professor?”

“Logan will take my departure very... difficultly. The Professor has his own demons to slay before he can feel confident in himself and his dream again. As for Emma, Ororo, and Rogue, those three represent the diverging philosophies of the mansion.”

“What’s wrong with a little diversity?”

“Emma is the consummate teacher who wants to shelter young mutants until they can protect themselves. Ororo is the problem-solver, there to take on the threats to mutanthood on a global scale with a small team she is familiar with. Rogue is like Ororo except she, because of her background with Mystique, is much more open-minded to diplomacy, at least with former enemies. Ororo and Rogue’s approaches put the mansion and students in danger which annoys Emma, who believes they are being irresponsible. Rogue’s willingness to let others into her trust--those like Joseph and Sabertooth-- irks Ororo’s growing jadedness with the world. There are divides in the ranks, and if left unchecked, the X-Men will splinter into meaningless pieces.”

Betsy caught the subtleties of Jean’s observations. With Scott, Logan, Charles, and Jean herself gone or preoccupied, no one could mediate the drama and strained lines of communications. There wouldn’t be enough instructors at the school or enough well-trained people to fill the rosters of two teams. The X-Men had to stick together and Jean wanted Betsy to be the that glue.

Ororo trusted her. If not, she would’ve never made it, however abrupt the stay was, onto the hunt for Destiny’s diaries.

Rogue trusted her. Their lone conversation in the week showed a relationship born of mutual respect and camaraderie.

Emma? Well, Betsy was the only one who could even claim a smidgen of sway over the former White Queen.

Everyone else fell into one of these camps: the teachers, the globe-trotters, and traditionalists. It was like Generation X, X-Factor, and the old X-Men all stuck under one roof.

Just a train crash waiting to happen. Just like old times.

While Betsy didn’t fully understand what Jean was going through, she was also the only one with connections to the three budding mentalities.

“You want me to play peacekeeper?”

“I can’t interfere anymore. I must let go and watch this world decide its own fate, but I love it too much to leave it adrift without some semblance of help. You understand that I’ll be here, if only in spirit. You understand that while I love all of you, I must leave for the greater good. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know one thing: a world with the X-Men is much better than a world without. For all of our faults, we continue to improve the lives of both humans and mutants. For all the troubles we’ve caused, we’ve also stopped more than our fair share and saved the masses from certain doom too many times to count. I’m asking you as your friend to keep Charles’ dream alive.”

“You’re talking like he’s not going to be here anymore.”

“After what happened tonight, few will listen to him. Emotions are running too high.”

They didn’t need to say anything about Scott and Logan. The men would deal in their own private ways.

To help or not to help--that was the question. Devoting herself to the Cause again... so soon... Did she have the fortitude? Did she have the ability? Most importantly, was she abusing Emma’s trust? Was she manipulating her to fit into Jean’s goals, goals that didn’t even guarantee a better tomorrow?

Was it too late to back out of her promise?

Only one way out of this. “I’ll try my best, Jean.”

The words left unsaid: “Don’t blame me if my best isn’t enough.” It was a page straight out of Emma’s most shifty annals which promised nothing but had shades of a job well done.

The twinkle in Jean’s eyes showed that she acknowledged the stipulation. “That’s all I can ask of you or anyone else, Betsy.”

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


- To be concluded...