Wisdom of Ages, Part Six

by Paradoqz

Then: (Some quarter of a century ago, Madripoor)

"So what do you think?"

"Honestly?"

"No. I know that honestly you're thinking about how to get in Roma Lee's pants. What do you think about this?"

"Mostly I'm thinking ouch."

"Well, that's helpful, Malik. Thanks. You can stop thinking now."

"Give it up, Marc. You know? It's just a bad idea. Bad. There is no way to pull it off. And even worse..." The older of the two boys, sitting cross-legged outside the bar trailed off, dragging his hand through the black short hair.

"What? What's worse?"

"You might. You actually might pull it off."

Marc, a leaner and long haired individual of 13 years grinned, teeth flashing as he absently blew a stubborn strand of straight black hair out of his almond shaped dark eyes. "Duh. 'Course I might." He frowned, expression somewhat pained. "I mean, of course I will. Pull it off."

He glared at the skeptical look in his friend's eyes. "My plans always work sometimes!"

Malik grimaced expressively and sighed. "I dunno, man. The security is shit, yeah. But that's only because only an idiot would try to rob the Reds. Remember what they did to Tau? These guys are vicious."

"Pheh."

Malik, with the thundering wisdom of his two extra years, scratched the tip of his nose and sighed again. "I don't like it."

Marc let out his own explosive sigh and stared at Malik with exaggerated patience. "We owe money. We don't have money. We need money. We steal money. We pay back money. We don't owe money."

I don't like it." Malik repeated stubbornly. "Like I said, what if we make it happen..." Marc grinned at the word 'we' but Malik either didn't notice or chose to ignore it. "There are no options for after. If they don't get us, their tame cops will."

The backdoor of the bar banged the grimy wall of the establishment in whose vicinity the boys were squatting, making them both look. Malik grinned despite himself as the collection of garbage bags waddled out of the door, the person carrying the trash completely obscured save for the worn army boots.

"O'Donnell. Working hard?" Marc sniggered softly as the bags were dropped with a considerable amount of relish, followed by a couple of epithets that were a bit strong even for LowTown's admittedly shaky standards. The large man who stood in the doorframe wore a disgusted expression as he examined his pants for stains. White shirt seemed in danger of giving, the seams straining, as he bent to wipe off the dirt. A cleanly shaven head and readily apparent and somewhat overdeveloped musculature gave Rory O'Donnell  a suitably menacing  appearance and, as he scowled at the two kids perched  precariously on the  top of the crates piled at the end of the alley, many  would deem it  prudent to vacate the premises of the aforementioned scowl at   top speed.  Malik's grin flashed as the Irish bouncer of the Princess Bar turned his stare on him. "Hey, O'Donnell. What'd ya do, this time?"

"I got no idea whatcha talkin' about, laddie." O'Donnell sounded faintly injured by the suggestion.

"Riiight, right."  Marc elbowed his friend and winked with deliberate exaggeration. "It's not like he takes the trash out only when he's ticked off Il Duce for the umpteenth time."

"No, no. He likes it."

"Good exercise."

"Fresh air." Malik nodded solemnly.

"And he probably didn't like those pants anyway." Marc gestured languidly.

"I know I wouldn't."

"Ug-leeee."

"Smartasses." Rory O'Donnell's headshake and an almost reluctant grin robbed the rumbling rebuke of its strength. "Get inside, Aisha will fix you up with some grub."

Malik always liked the Princess bar. Maybe because to him the place always seemed like a perfect microcosm of Madripoor. Maybe despite it. The den of thieves and scoundrels, the dealers and gangsters, murderers and assassins, where information and drugs, booze and lives were sold side by side, an uneasy demilitarized zone where sworn enemies bought each other drinks and smiled, biding their time.

Much like the island metropolis itself, the population of the bar would surprise the uninitiated with its rather heavy compliment of Caucasians. To the denizens of both the bar and the city it has long since ceased to be a topic of conversation. Madripoor had been one of the earliest freeports in the Pacific. Its position astride the nexus of seaborne trade routes of Southeast Asia made it the hub of commerce and piracy since time immemorial. Less than a generation after Vasco da Gama announced his arrival to the residents of Bombay with a cannonade, Portuguese galleons were anchored in Madripoor's harbor, side by side with Chinese junks.

As the European Empires carved up Asia into their satrapies, the Princes of Madripoor played gracious hosts to the cutthroats and corsairs and so, when the sepoys of India rose and gambled all in a desperate attempt to win their freedom only a stone's throw aside one of the most ironic jests in history played out as the European and native pirates and thieves, acting in perfect cooperation, were beating back yet another of the innumerable attempts of the Colonialists to bring order to the Lawless Isle.

The Madripoor rulers played their cards wisely and well, carefully walking the line of never being nuisance enough to warrant serious expedition by one of the Great Powers. The city grew rich. Rich enough that even the Japanese occupation and plunder of the island did not impoverish it. And as the young American power flexed its muscles after the war, new wealth was there to be made by those with the eye and the wit.  Madripoor lacked neither.

Of course, the distribution of the wealth was hardly equal. But that was nothing new under the sun of the island city. And in some ways the scale of Madripoor made the division far less hypocritical -- as the tall and majestic buildings of the HighTown rose, scraping the abode of the Gods, like the castles of old, the slums of the LowTown seemed all the stranger, out of place, almost of another world altogether. The division painful in its clarity.  All pretense of coexistence foregone.

Malik and Marc ghosted their way through the crowd filling the bar as O'Donnell glared his way through, parting the throngs like Moses with his bulk when the glare proved deficient. Malik saw his friends' eyes flicker to the side and scowled at him, just in time. Pickpocketing one of Hong's men was definitely not a good plan, despite the potential windfall. Marc shrugged and, blowing a quiet raspberry, jerked his hand back, falling in  behind O'Donnell.

"Killjoy."

"Punk."

O'Donnell threw the pair a warning glare before the sniping match could gather strength. The two quickly assumed innocent expressions, smiling seraphically in almost perfect unison. He narrowed his eyes and turned away elbowing one of the Williamsons' enforcers out of the way.

***

Busy today.  Maybe the rumors of the Hongs and the Williamsons talking alliance wasn't just smoke and mirrors. That means one of them was planning to jump employers... trouble. He glowered another bullyboy out of his way and   resisted the impulse to glance behind him, eyeing the big man with brutal and dull eyes to his right. In twenty years that's Malik... if he's lucky.

No other way out of LowTown, but as a foot soldier for one of the 'barons' of the underworld. That or junkie, mugging a stray tourist for another fix.  Or being knifed in a stupid brawl by the time you were eighteen. Too many dead ends, too few escape routes. The two street rats at his back were LowTown's prime exports; perhaps even more valuable than the opium Roche and Coy were pushing all across Asia.

Young 'talent' almost ready to be picked and hired by those who were always is need of fresh bodies. Madripoor streets bred the hit men and button men who plied their trade across Asia, from New Deli to Ulan Bator. Rory sighed and pushed the thought away, life was what it was. And Malik was smarter than most, quicker than some. The rest was up to him. Not that he was an angel, of course. Had a wild streak that could turn him vicious and moody in a second. Couldn't have lasted without it. But not fueled by that self-destructive, all consuming anger at the world for being born like so many of other street children that roamed the Madripoor back ways like wolf packs. Hidden, submerged and always... different.

O'Donnell still wondered about   the reason Marc's obvious dominance, despite his partner's age. Not as if Malik lacked either aggressive drive or the ability... Still, Rory shrugged, whatever worked.  The pair were true children of LowTown's streets, making their own way for a long time already, before Seraph took them under her wing. The proprietor of the Princess Bar, Rory reflected, had a strange affinity for strays. Rory sighed philosophically. At least these two were marginally less feral than that Canadian psycho. He shuddered slightly and covertly made the horns to ward off evil.

"O'Donnell!"

"Fuck." Rory's lips thinned a little as he turned toward the speaker.

"You can't hide from me, you slimy bucket of pus!" The black haired man, easily as large as Rory  himself, was moving through the crowd toward him with a speed that was dangerously uncommon for  someone of such size.

"I work here, Alvarson. What do you want?"

"Your liver on a plate, you Mick bastard!" The breath stinking of garlic and alcohol made O'Donnell blink reflectively for just a moment, and that moment was all the opportunity Alvarson needed.

He felt the skin parting first, all feeling and all external noise reduced to background noise for a fleeting second under that odd, expectant numbness that precedes the command being relayed by nerve endings to the brain. As if on cue pain flared brightly and hotly, and he stumbled, barely avoiding the second lunge.

He felt more than saw Malik melting away from behind him, too busy to think about anything else but the trembling tip of the knife dancing only inches away from his heart.

"Fight!"

"Fight!"

"Space! Give them space, you motherlovin' sons of bitches!"

"Open that Mick up, Janos!"

Even as he crouched, his arms akimbo, the left wrist and palm slick with the stream of blood running down from the cut on his bicep, O'Donnell grimaced in irritation as the fight quickly turned into a spectacle.  Alvarson swept the knife up and across, but this time the Irish bouncer saw the telltale roll of shoulders moments before the attack.

"Stick 'im, you dumb fuck! Don't dance with 'im!"

The bar exploded in laughter, the feeble joke helped by the amount of liquor being consumed. Alvarson's eyes narrowed down into unblinking, hating slits but O'Donnell noted with growing unease that the Swede's breathing slowed and his knife hand steadied considerably as Janos swept it  in slow dangerous arcs forcing Rory back.

"Get inside, Rory! Take that pig-sticker of his and jam it where the sun don't shine."

"I got money on you, Irish!"

Alvarson lunged again, again his bulky build telegraphing his intention, but this time as O'Donnell danced away, making a grab for the Swede's wrist, the blade jumped as Janos changed hands and stabbed downward at the reaching arm.

"Thass it! Thass it!!"

"That's two! Skin the bastard, Jonny! "

"Piece by fucking piece!"

Rory bit down his natural impulse and, swallowing the pain, grinned contemptuously into the beady blue eyes. The bluff had the desired effect, as Janos roared with rage and charged like a maddened bull. O'Donnell threw himself to one side, swearing at himself for once again underestimating Alvarson's speed. The tenuous self-control that the Swede forced on himself had snapped and the attacks were coming in fast and savage slashes now, again forcing Rory away from closing with Janos. Worse, Alvarson did not appear to be tiring despite the frenzied pace.

"Gonna cut you, Irish. Gonna cut you, you little fuck."

The blade was a bluish blur and the cuts on his arms burned as the sweat trickled down, but Rory didn't dare to spare a moment and wipe his forehead. "C'mon, then. Come and get it, Jonny-boy."

"Gaaaargh!" Alvarson lunged again, switching hands in mid motion and Rory growled with feral satisfaction, seeing his chance.

Sway left. Step in. Lock out the instinct screaming about the insanity of running toward the knife.  And now..."Lemme show you how we do it back home, you fat piece of dirt."

Alvarson grunted, the rancid breath once again hitting Rory in a nauseating wave, and jerked his knife arm trying to free it from O'Donnell's iron-latch clasp. Rory bared his teeth and squeezed, trapping the Swede's other arm between his own and his right side. Alvarson grunted again, the pain contorting his features but hanging on to the knife with animal stubbornness, until Rory's forehead came down, crushing his nose. "Belfast Jig, Jonny-boy."

And again Rory's head slammed down into the larger man's bleeding face, closing his left eye. And again.  And again. Until he heard the telltale clattering sound of the dropped knife.  He should have known better, he really should have. But instead he relaxed, almost imperceptibly changing his stance...  just enough to give Alvarson leverage. His knee came up in a dirty but well aimed blow and for a moment Rory couldn't breathe, his muscles seizing up and his grip on the Swede growing slack. "Motherfucker...."

"Ohhhh."

"Dayaaaam!"

"That's gotta hurt."

Janos grunted again, pushing Rory away. "Belfast, my ass." The Swede's haymaker was wild, barely connecting and the pain from the punch but a distant echo of the earlier blow. But it was enough to send the already reeling O'Donnell sprawling. He crawled away, trying weakly to pull himself up, pulling down the chairs and a table cover instead as his legs refused to work. He twisted clumsily to look behind himself just in time to see Janos bend over and pick the knife. "Shit."

"Gonna gut you like a sardine, Mick. Like a goddamn sardine."

He would too.

Rory's thoughts swirled dazedly and sluggishly as he watched the big man's approach, his eyes focusing on the glittering knife point with morbid fascination.

Alvarson sniffled, dripping blood and snot, "Broke my nose. Make you beg. Gut you. Like a fuckin' sardine. Make you scream. "The low hate-filled whisper snapped the dreamlike web that had seemingly been coating Rory's brain and he lurched upwards and away from the nearing Swede. He swayed, losing his balance or a second and bumping heavily against the nearest table before propping himself up into an unsteady, half-leaning half-falling stance. Janos spat and broke into a lumbering run, knife held out in a shoulder-level rigidly outstretched arm like a pike.. "You're dead, Mick. Dead! Deagh- "

"In a pig's eye, asshole."

Rory blinked, dully surprised as he saw the crimson string of blood weave its way down his face. He didn't even remember hitting his head. He blinked again, shaking his head and trying dumbly to understand whether he was hallucinating or Malik really had just rocketed out of the kitchen swinging a baseball bat in a practiced two-handed grip. Alvarson snarled in pain again as Malik's bat connected with his knee for a second time and fell heavily.

"That's right! Squeal, piggy! Squeal!" O'Donnell squinted in pained confusion as Marc Roryrialized in front of him, seemingly out of thin air, a chain held firmly in one hand, blurring into a humming steel circle as he gestured with his left, in an unmistakably obscene gesture. "Who's next, huh?  Huh?! C'mon! Try it! Try it, you motherfuckers!" Marc glanced briefly over his shoulder, flashing Rory the savage, breathless grin of someone who is having too much fun to give a damn.

Rory felt his legs give again and made a grab for the table as desperate as it was futile. He thudded heavily back on the floor. 'Damn. Must have hit my head worse than I thought.'

He remembered suddenly that he wanted to do something about the sweat and swiped his hand numbly across his forehead, swearing as the blood smeared his forehead and the sweat stung the cut. Still the sting seemed to clear the last cobwebs and his eyes focused. He scowled at Malik, who paused for a moment to glance at him while still brandishing the bat over the cursing Janos. The scowl froze however and he stared, his mouth half opened to shout a warning.

Too late.

Malik's head whipped around just in time to see the Swede's knife coming straight at him. He grunted and swung, fully intending to break Alvarson's hand and be done.

'Holy shit! Holy shit, this guy's fast! Holy...'

"Oh crap." Malik stared blankly at the stump of the bat in his hands, the larger remnant sheared away. "Not good."

Alvarson surged to his feet, the limp all the more pronounced as he went for Malik's throat.

"Oh, not good."

Rory gritted his teeth in grim determination and hauled himself upwards again, forcing himself to balance with a supreme force of will as his vision swam after the abrupt movement. He just barely saw Malik take a flying leap. The kid let the bat's hilt fly, missing Janos' head by mere inches, and dove under the table, scampering on all fours out the other side. The Swede scowled after him but turned away, spitting and assessing Marc with a measuring stare. "Beat it, street rat. He's mine."

"Gotta go through me first, Gimpy."

Janos spat again and cracked his neck. Flipping the knife, he caught it by the hilt and he stepped unhurriedly toward Marc, "Not a problem."

O'Donnell caught the look in Marc's eyes and froze for the briefest of seconds. The wild and pure anticipatory gleam of a predator, seeming all the more incongruous on a 13-year old's face. The boy's lips stretched, showing his fangs, and he glided forward with boneless grace to meet Alvarson.

The chain whistled, cutting the air and making Janos duck. Marc grinned and the chain sung again painting spirals around him as he and Alvarson circled each other. Marc feinted to the right, stepping lightly and surely, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet. The bigger man swayed to counter and had to spring back rapidly as Marc whipped the chain at his face with a reversed slash. Suddenly Janos snarled and lunged forward, cursing again as he took a hit to the torso, and grabbed the chain with his hand. Jerking it roughly toward himself he casually backhanded Marc, sending him sprawling across the floor. "Punk." He threw the chain on the floor and sniffed, raising his eyes at O'Donnell. "Your turn, Mick."

"You bet."

Alvarson blinked stupidly at the shape suddenly looming in front of him. "Wha.." The query cut off abruptly and brutally as the edge of Rory's right palm hit his jugular, while his left hammered the Swede's knife arm at the wrist against Rory's knee.  O'Donnell swore as pain lanced through his hand and instead of going down Janos simply stumbled back, dropping the blade. The blow went bad, partly caught by the Swede's jawbone. Sputtering his rage, Alvarson surged forward, grasping Rory in a bear hug and raising him off the floor in a crushing embrace. His ribs cracking Rory felt his lips pull up, in a wolfish snarl as grinned savagely, jamming his thumbs under Alvarson's armpits.

This time the roar almost deafened him, as the death grip on his ribcage slackened. Rory's lips stretched into a thin vicious line and Janos's eyes widened in a horrified realization, "No! Not aga... Argh!"

O'Donnell feet found the floor again as Alvarson stumbled back, clutching his hands over the bloody ruin of his nose. Not wasting a moment the bouncer followed the head butt with a punch, sending Janos into a staggering retreat and keeping him reeling with a flurry of blows.

"Fucker." Jab.

"Gonna pull a feather on me in my own house?" Jab.

"Gonna push the kids around?" Cross.

" C'mon!" Uppercut. "Get up, you sonavabith!" Kick. "Up!"

Rory strengthened, wiping his mouth in a slow angry gesture, his eyes never leaving the Alvarson's body. The Swede moaned and his right hand moved weakly as he struggled to pull himself toward the knife laying a few feet away on the floor.  O'Donnell scowled and leaned down, grasping Janos by the hair and hauling him up. "Dumbass."

"Hey, let 'im be, O'Donnell!"

"Shut up!"

"Snap his neck, Rory!"

"Better let him go, Irish."

Alvarson's eyes rolled frantically and his fingers scrabbled ineffectually along Rory's wrist. He appeared to be tiring quickly -- until caught the look in the bouncer's eyes and suddenly redoubled his efforts.

"Say good night, Jonny-me-boyo."

The blow behind Janos's ear was sharp and tightly controlled and Rory nodded in satisfaction, examining the suddenly limp body with a critical eye. Out for good. On the other hand..."Ah whatta hell."

"O'Donnell!"

The warning was just in time but even as Rory recognized the voice and registered the tone, he shrugged mentally and followed through anyway, something inside of him snarling in feral satisfaction as he rammed Alvarson's head into the table's surface in an enormously gratifying, powerful slam.

"O'Donnell!" This time the tone held not only a warning but also a promise of inescapable and suitably horrifying retribution to follow shortly.

"Boss."

A short, middle aged, bottle blonde glared up the Irish bouncer towering above her, her arms crossed belligerently. Rory swallowed and winced as the hands slick with blood and sweat lost grip on Alvarson's hair and the Swede's face smacked back into the table.

Seraph, the owner, proprietor and almighty and merciless deity of the Princess Bar slowly transferred her eyes at the unconscious body, then back at O'Donnell, before slowly and deliberately letting them take in the carnage.  The blue eyes came back to stare at O'Donnell, with flat and unfriendly expression.

"Five minutes."

"Yes, boss!"

The cleanup took less than Rory feared, especially since the bar emptied out somewhat as midday neared. Malik and Marc pitched in, before Seraph came back to glare the younger part of the duo into her office to look at his quickly developing bruise.

"Ugh. Thish ish dishgushting." Malik shuddered and deftly demolished the remnant of the food on his plate. "More?"

"Here. Try to swallow it instead of inhaling this time."

"I'd have to taste it then."

"Smartalec."

Rory sat silently for a while, watching Malik eat, absently bandaging his hand. "Listen, kid..."

"Hmph?" Malik raised his head, swallowing, as Rory fell silent again. " I am _eating_. What?"

O'Donnell squinted and tightened the knot, looking at his bandaged hand critically. Visibly stalling.  Malik's eyes narrowed and he put the spoon down carefully. "Spit it out."

"It's about your partner."

"What about him?" Malik's tone unmistakably took on a hostile defensive tinge as he moved his plate away.

Rory frowned darkly but held on to his temper. "Same old. Listen to me, kid. You... Just, trust me, all right! He's dangerous. Wild. I know the signs."

"He just saved you life, man! Jesus!"

"Yeah. And he's gonna get you killed."

Hey Mal..." Marc stopped, regarding the pair locked in a glaring contest warily. "Am I interrupting something?"

Malik was the first to break eye contact, getting up and nodding curtly to Rory, "Nah. We're done here. Let's jet."

***

Now:

New York was sweltering. There was no other way to describe it. It seemed absurd that the temperature could rise so radically after weeks of unrepentant torrential downpours that plaguing the city recently. And yet. New York was sweltering.

It was the dry, mercilessly bright, inescapable heat of concrete and metal. Waves of it assailed the city, pounding like a muted chorus of war drums, making the air into a shimmering, wavering curtain, painting the city with uneven stripes of buildings' shadows. The sun hung motionlessly overhead in a clear sky over the emptying streets. The occasional helicopter, like a moth drawn to its fiery doom, would cross the blue expanse infrequently, swallowed momentarily by the golden glare before disappearing out of view.

New York was sweltering.

Far from the majestic towers of Manhattan's skyscrapers and the wide throughways of Broadway, deep in the bowels of the district known not entirely inappropriately as Hell's Kitchen the heat was almost unbearable. The tall wide shouldered man with long blond hair falling limply on his shoulders swiped a cheap paper towel across his face and growled. "I hate this city."

"What are you talkin' about, man? This town is great."

Victor Creed, the mutant, the assassin, the murderer, the mercenary, the madman, the Sabretooth, turned slowly around from the grimy window of a seedy and, until recently, abandoned tenement building, his eerie, catlike eyes settling with a faint air of contempt on the second man in the room. Muscled like a gymnast, the younger man was also blond, but there the similarity between the two ended. His eyes were hidden behind the expensive pair of Raybands but it mattered little to Creed, whose enhanced senses picked up with ease the increased heart rate and the smell of... fear. "I wasn't talking to you, Fletcher. So stay the fuck outta my face. Got it?"

"Uhh... yeah. Sure."

The dark amber eyes remained focused on Rick Fletcher's face, widening slightly as Creed's nostrils flared, giving Sabretooth an even more predatory look.

"Hey."

Rick's relief was almost palpable as the familiar voice sounded, breaking the tension. Lucy Banks' eyes darted from one face to the other, only her head visible in the gaping maw of the trapdoor, the dark ebony of her skin making her almost invisible in the shadows. She dragged long slender fingers through short kinky hair, keeping her eyes on Creed. "Boss wants us downstairs."

Rick waved his hand in affirmation, knowing even as he did that the motion was harried, nervous...  afraid. "We'll be right there."

By the window Creed snorted.

Lucy nodded and giving the pair one last long look disappeared below. Once out of view she let out a small wavering sigh and leaned her forehead against the smooth surface of the mirror, closing her eyes for a moment. Another shuddering gasp escaped her and she concentrated drawing in a deliberate, measured breath before slowly letting it out. Calming herself. Getting a hold on her center. Her. Lucy Banks.  The Ark. Breathe in. And out. Find yourself.

In. She was scared. Terrified.

Out. She mustn't show it. Even though she was sure that Creed knew. Creed ... That one scared her the most.  Even more than the Boss.

In. She was a part of something finally. Something big. Something important. It sounded trite and tired.  But it was true. She was part of the Brotherhood now. Their history became hers.

Out. They were legendary. Magneto himself picked them once to follow him and make the world safe for the mutants. The Magneto.

In. Lucy. Lucy Banks. The Ark.

Out. She would prove that she belonged. Whatever it might take.

Creed was the last to enter the 'War Room', glaring everyone out of his way. His hand shot out with superhuman quickness and grabbing a stool he settled down in a murky corner, the yellow eyes alert and ready. Forcibly Lucy made herself to look at someone else, anywhere else. Almost unconsciously her eyes ran around the room. The 'War Room' was manifestly unsuited for the grandiose name it somehow acquired. Its single virtue was the fact that the room was spacious and cool, a refuge from the heat. The best piece of furniture was green pool table in the middle of the basement, covered with maps magazines and paper - most of it filled with the Boss's small, curving handwriting. The Boss practically lived down here, Lucy thought not for the first time, her eyes drawn for a fleeting moment to the old small fridge in the corner. Hell, the Boss even slept down here. If she ever slept.

Lucy remembered vividly coming down for something one night and seeing the Boss just laying there, hands locked behind her head, just looking. Utterly still, just looking at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Weird. Lucy sighed. That word seemed to apply to many of the issues relating to her new surroundings.

Lips quirking she stifled an irritated sigh as Rick's voice rang out again with the inevitable annoying comment. Fletcher was the only other Newbie beside herself in the room.  Well, not entirely, she conceded, and her eyes darted briefly toward the slender young brunette sitting demurely at the corner of the table. Martinique Jason caught her glance, brief as it was, and nodded gracefully. Blushing Lucy blinked self-consciously and hurriedly turned away. Martinique always made her feel so inadequate.

She was the daughter of the original Mastermind and from everything Lucy heard and saw she more than lived up to the nomme de guerre she adopted in her father's memory. When they were first introduced, Lucy assumed her to be French -- the name, the seemingly innate grace and the fact that Martinique was then a brunette feeding into some old preconception. The clipped, unmistakably British accent dispelled the notion as soon as Martinique spoke. So, theoretically, Martinique was just as green, just as new.

Still... Lucy could not bring herself to count herself or Rick on the same level as Mastermind.

Rick Fletcher. The bastard son of Martin Fletcher, the original Super Sabre. The son inherited the father's super speed, just as Martinique inherited her father's telepathy. And he also felt it appropriate to adopt the name as well. Unfortunately, Lucy sighed, the super speed appeared to affect every part of Rick except for his brain. He was catty, annoying and vain. Cute too but... Annoying.  Mostly annoying. And not terribly bright, Lucy privately thought, as he continued to bait the gigantic man sitting next to him. Only an idiot would continue trying Fred Dukes' patience. Certainly Lucy wasn't going to.

She had heard of the Blob of course. Even saw him on TV a couple of times. He was even larger in person if that was possible. His size, actually, was the butt of most of Fletcher's jokes and, while so far Dukes had contented himself with verbal sparring, Lucy dreaded the inevitable moment when he'd take a more direct approach.

Toad, seeming all the smaller in comparison to his old compatriot, sat perched on a railing, his tongue flickering and the quick eyes in constant motion. Mortimer Toynbee, the one-time leader of Brotherhood of Mutants. Nothing in his manner suggested that he was bitter about his change in status.  But then he, Dukes, the Boss and Sabretooth knew each other from old. The same for Dominic Petros, the Avalanche and Kevin Tremain, the Post, who at this very moment were standing watch somewhere outside. Lucy frowned, once again puzzled why the two more experienced mutants were being left out of this conference while Fletcher and herself were not.

She sighed and quietly looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. The important thing was to remember and breathe. And it was easier down here at least. Lucy shivered slightly, the chilly air of the basement -- while a relief from the pressing heat -- was somewhat of a bother when she was wearing only a light summer dress.

"Hey, Banks." She looked up startled, just in time to catch some strange fluttering, black object flying at her.

Mortimer Toynbee shook his head at her and snickered, "Weirdo. It's a freakin' oven outside and you're shaking like a leaf."

Lucy grinned quick thanks and straggled into the leather jacket, sighing with quiet if somewhat embarrassed contentment. Toad shook his head again, grinning. Suddenly his smile fled and he went very still, reminding Lucy of the black and white stills of the Notre Dame gargoyles. Just as suddenly his head inclined in a short nod, breaking the illusion.

Lucy half-turned and was met squarely by a level, faintly amused stare of those uncanny crimson almond shaped eyes. Martinique coughed delicately and Lucy started, realizing that the entire room was watching the staring contest. She flushed again and dropped her eyes, "Sorry, boss."

Mystique laughed at that, the low warm throaty chuckle washing over the room. Getting up from the cot along the wall in one swift move, she stretched catlike. "Everyone is here then. Good." Raven  Darkholme, the current leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants, was barefoot and the sound of her steps  across the cold stone floor of the basement was too low enough even for the enhanced senses of the mutants  around her. She was dressed simply in a black skirt and a beige blouse, her exotically blue skin and the hair color of blood making the clothes seem plain. She glided softly by Lucy, her eyes flickering from her to Toad, whose posture seemed to become even more rigid. Mystique's teeth showed again in a soundless laugh and she ran her hand lightly across Lucy's back before turning and regarding Fletcher, her smile still in place and yet completely different.  Sabre shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the stare, and Lucy held her breath, not sure what she was afraid of. The silence stretched and the look in Rick's eyes began to take on a definitely panicky aspect. Beside him the Blob sat heavily, watching in silence, nodding slightly at Mystique when her eyes finally, wordlessly left Sabre.  Darkholme didn't nod back and, Lucy noted, she never even looked at Creed as she stopped at the edge of the table.

"Very well. There has been a slight change. Kelly's coming here a week earlier." Raven smiled again and Lucy swallowed, struck by the resemblance between it and the predatory expression on Creed's face just minutes ago.

***

"Would you mind giving Becky a hand with her suitcase, Nathan?"

"Of course. I told her, I'd get it." Cable glared at the short brunette as he snatched the luggage out of her hands, seemingly just in time before she lost her balance and fell, huge suitcase and all.  Rebecca Morgan grinned, "I do so love a gentleman. Careful with that! And don't you growl at me, mister!"

Eddie sniggered as he appeared in the doorway and scanned the bedlam that was Robert Kelly's hotel room with an experienced eye. "Are we about ready?" He  easily shrugged off the spiteful looks from the people in the room grinning at Kelly's chastising headshake. "It's good for them, Senator. Keeps their egos in check."

"Edward. A word of advice. Don't tease the potential members of the future Cabinet."

Eddie froze suddenly; seemingly petrified by this take on the situation, and from the adjoining room Melissa snickered, "Ouch. Nowhere to go. All exits cut off. Unless of course Mr. Carson would care to express some doubts in regards to our indubitable victory in the election?"

General laugh swept the room, still chasing Nathan as he left the room. Nobody noticed that his own grin had grown a little glassy and strained. Except perhaps for Kelly. Cable scowled, storming down the corridor, four suitcases in his hands. They still didn't know. The absurdity of the situation had ceased to amuse him a while ago. Apparently Bright lady felt that his life simply wasn't complicated enough. He growled and kicked the door of the elevator, denting it slightly and scaring a socialite couple, who gave him a strange look and backed away into their room, apparently deciding to take the next car. He would have laughed if it wasn't so goddamn typical. Catching his reflection in a metallic paneling of the elevator's doors Cable bared his teeth at himself, the memories of that day just a few weeks ago coming unbidden and disjointed.

Kellly's face, going impossibly even calmer and more unreadable than before as he carefully settled his glass on the table before him. Taking off his glasses and folding them, his eyes never leaving Roushe's face. "Nathan?"

"He's clean, Senator."

Roushe seemed to relax at that, an oily smile coming back to part the wet lips. "Believe me, Senator.  This is not an attempt to entrap you."

Cable's gut twisted in cold hate for the man and all of his kind, but he stayed impassive. Watching.

His patience paid off. And how. Nate's reflection nodded in agreement. It should be a no small ego boost. Being one of the less than twenty people on Earth to be in the possession of information that would decide the course of the future.

Bright Lady, he could have done without it!

Roushe's sweating; still smiling face swam before his mind's eye. Talking. Incessantly talking as if anything else needed to be been said. A chance. A fluke of fate. What a mess.

Nobody could have predicted the unexpected appeal of the 'folksy' Joseph Allen Davis. Nobody could have guessed that he would sweep out of nowhere to grab the Republican nomination. Nobody could have foreseen the unmistakably one-sided campaign as Kelly, whom many of the pundits considered a stronger candidate, continued to trail, and badly.

Nobody could have known that the 14-year old Allie Davis would manifest less than four months before the Election Day.

Her power was as innocent as one could wish. And it didn't matter a jot. And so one little girl's ability to make flowers grow would decide the fate of the single most powerful country on Earth. Life was funny sometimes.

Funny. Yeah.

Roushe wasn't telling them everything, of course. Big surprise. And all of the reasons he gave made sense. Almost entirely convincing. Any attempt by Davis to drop his quest for presidency at this juncture would indubitably result in an even more merciless scrutiny by the press. Or he could go on and win. In either case, the truth was bound to come out. Piously Roushe professed his concern for the incalculable damage such scandal would deal the Republican Party.

Perhaps he was even telling the truth. Paradoxically it was much easier to throw the election to the opposing party, if one wanted to avoid unwelcome attention.

And attention was most definitely unwelcome. Though perhaps Cable's reasons differed from those of Roushe.

Nate winced again, just he'd winced that day imagining the reaction of the Joe Average if the news ever broke. "Mutant Conspiracy!"

Life was infinitely tragic sometimes.

The elevator car slowed smoothly to a stop and the sound of a bell preceded the opening of the doors. It took Nathan several minutes to realize that the group of people waiting for the elevator were exchanging glances and whispers, looking at him and most probably wondering why he was just standing there, looking straight ahead. Lost for an adequate explanation he settled for a dark glower instead, shouldering his way through, two bags in each hand.

It wasn't his problem dammit! It wasn't. Let Kelly figure it out. It was his own damn life. His own damn choice. If he wanted the presidency badly enough... So be it.

Not his problem.

Keeping Kelly alive to make the decision was. Nothing else.

Not his problem.

"So are we actually leaving for the airport anytime today?" Mike grinned amiably, without breaking his hawk-like scanning of the street. From behind the wheel Jack rumbled in deep, low laughter, as Cable dumped the bags inside. "Yeah. New York waits for no man."

***

"Madame Archon?" James Woolworth knocked on the opened door again, coughing with meaningful deference.  He sighed resignedly, as, just as he expected, no answer came and he settled just outside the room, watching his Archon.

Amelia Voght had been in a strange mood all day. Quiet. Pensive. Distracted. Magistry of Interior was currently in the process of holding its collective breath. James pretended not to notice the pitying glances as he went up to personally deliver the missive to the Archon. He knew the Archon better than any of them. Maybe even better than many of her original compatriots among the Acolytes. And so while the rank and file of the Magistry had long since decided that it was impossible to predict the mercurial Voght and it was just simpler to always assume the worst, James long since learned to recognize the signs that prefaced the infamous explosions of temper. Somebody had to be there to look out for Rusty in a pinch, after all.

He sighed, the green eyes narrowing in thought on the back of the red headed woman staring out of the tall window overlooking Hammer Bay. Looks like this was one of those days. He'd just come back later.

"James. Where are you going?"

"Uh..."

"Is that piece of paper you're clutching for me or did you come up here to admire the view?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean, it is, ma'am. Here."

"Summarize it for me."

"Uhm..." Woolworth glanced uncertainly at the deciphered text of the message that came barely half an hour ago. "It's from the first lance. They say that they're certain that Mystique is New York. That they will find her shortly."

Voght nodded absently. "Good. Good." She shook her head suddenly, red hair flying and moved quickly to the table, writing something with quick sure strokes and then thrusting the piece of paper at James.  "Send this. Now."

"Yes, Madame Archon."

***

"I don't get it."

Deb's palm hit her forehead with a loud crack. "Oy vey."

Vazhin scowled. "Enough. And run it by me again."

"Again?!"

"Again."

Deb let out an explosive sigh and cast an appealing glance at Rasputin who was standing in the doorframe, cigarette smoke swimming about his face. The tall dark-haired man looked back impassively and Deb sighed again. "Okey-dokey."

It's not that she blamed Vazhin. She hadn't react exactly with tact and understanding when she got the news. But still. Her fingers grabbed the edge of the blanket and she shifted, pulling herself up into a half-seating position. From his seat on the chair next to the bed, Vazhin scowled again. "So what you're trying to tell me is that..." The head of Department 13 smiled sourly and started ticking off the points methodically on his fingers. "You got shot."

"Yeah."

"You shot back."

"Yeah."

"You ran."

"Yeah."

Vazhin closed his eyes for a second before continuing in a deceptively mild tone. "Then you were found by Grigori Rasputin who healed you, fed you and told you to call me."

"No."

"No?"

"Nope. I called you. He just said he didn't have any objection to me telling you the truth."

"That was nice of him."

Deb grinned, "I thought so too."

Alexei rubbed tiredly the patch covering the ruin of his right eye. At length he turned around to regard the man standing by the door levelly. "All right. What?"

"Huh?"

"Quiet, Levin."

"Wait! You can't just go ' all right' like that! Damn! This is Rasputin, man! The Rasputin! I mean the The Rasputin! And check this out!"

Vazhin's eyebrow quirked as Deb scrambled, struggling with the blanket and her shirt. "Deborah... Why are you stripping?"

"In your dreams. Look!"

"Yes?"

"Yes! See? A distinct lack of gaping wound? See! He did that! So hah! You can't just go all 'cool, moving on now!' I don't care how long you were with.." Deb contorted her face and changed her voice into a caricature of Vazhin "The Department."

Slapping the blanket she stared at him resolutely, "There is no way you can top this, I don't care how many ghosts haunted your old commander's office!  C'mon! Ras-pu-tin! Raspu-TIN. RAS-putin! "

Vazhin steepled his fingers, looking at Deb with stoic patience. As usual the tactic proved successful and Deb subsided, muttering darkly.

"Done?'

Glowering at him, Deb sniffed and resolutely clamped her lips shut, staring straight ahead.

"Good. Mr. Rasputin?"  Alexei raised his eyebrow, tilting his head. "To what do I owe this honor?"

The man let out a stream of tobacco smoke, watching it dissipate for a second before replying with mild disinterest.  "Armageddon."

***

"So what's the problem? I mean, everything practically is in place. And I didn't like the bomb plan anyway. We'll just go in, Marti here will mess with their brains, we kick their ass, off the moron and we're outta there." Rick shrugged and locked his hands behind his head reclining on his chair.  "Simple."

Lucy was almost sure that she caught a shadow of distaste run across Martinique's features when she heard Rick shorten her name, but the expression was so fleeting she wouldn't swear to it. And in any case she was more concerned with the somewhat appalled silence that greeted Fletcher's statement. She jumped as Creed, eerily motionless throughout most of the discussion, suddenly got up in one fluid motion. He gave Fletcher one long disgusted look, dropped his cigar and stomping it stalked out of the room without a word.

"What? What?!" Sabre flushed and looked around challengingly. " We could do this!"

"Or, y'know... " Toad shrugged depreciatingly from his perch, "We could come up with a plan that we actually survive. Howsabout that?"

"Yeah. What the fuck kind of crap is that. What the hell are we? X-Men?"

Rick's flush deepened and he glared at Dukes, "Come up with better then, lardguts!" Before anyone could reply the speedster disappeared, leaving the room at blurring velocity.

Fred looked heavily at the trapdoor that slammed shut after the Super Sabre before turning to Mystique. "Just so we're all good and clear... That little fuck is the decoy, right? Right, boss?"

Toad sniggered softly and Raven smiled, unrolling the blueprints that they had all memorized over the  last weeks, on the table, "Here's how we're gonna do it...."

"What about Cr.. Uh, I mean Sabretooth?"

Mystique quirked an eyebrow, pausing to regard Lucy for a second. "He knows already. He, Avalanche and the Post are on the way there." She turned to Martinique, "Now... Fletcher wasn't completely talking out of his ass, actually..."

***

"Well?"

"No dice. We spotted Creed, but he lost us."

"Shit." Katu grunted and stroked his beard, thinking. "This ain't good."

The pale, thin youth across from his shrugged and saluted. "Sorry, sir."

"Not your fault. Creed is good. I just didn't count on him and Raven hooking up again. They hate each others' guts..." Once again the old Acolyte ran his synthetic right hand through his graying beard thinking, "You can go, Ascet."

"Sir."

Katu watched as the kid saluted again and turned about smartly, before leaving and carefully closing the door behind him. 'There's a lance leader in the making or I'll shave my beard. Dammit.' He scowled, tugging on his braid as his thoughts returned to the problem at hand. The Intel was good but they'd missed Sabretooth's involvement. Made one wonder what else got by them. He frowned, looking at the sheet of paper with a list of familiar names before him. He was reasonably sure that with fifteen men he could take care of Darkholme and her little nostalgia circus of has beens. He snorted.

Neither Avalanche nor Post were exactly spring chickens anymore. Creed though. Raven herself... God knows what other surprises were there. And he in the middle of it with half of his lance Neophytes. He smiled despite himself. Little horrors. His hand clenched almost unconsciously and he sighed, looking at the stump of his left arm. He could still feel it sometimes, feel the little aches, feel his fingers. It was strange. He shrugged fatalistically. At least he wasn't dead. He'd wanted to be for a long time.  Especially when it finally became clear that without his arms, the control over his mutancy became much too unstable. The fact that the bionics seemed to actually increase them at first, made the eventual let down all the more painful. But.

Voght came through for him. And so did the Chief.

Gave him Neophytes.

He chuckled. He never thought he'd grow attached to a bunch of kids, feral and wild, gathered all over  the world. Some came out of the Genoshan civil war. Already lethal, experienced, jaded fighters at 15.  Others came from everywhere else. None lacked in experience of being a mutant. Survivors all. New wave. Next Acolytes.

The future.

He sighed again. This bunch was good. Already had a few successes in the field. This new BoM would be their graduation exam. After today, they'd be the first Neophytes to go out on their own. Without being meshed with more experienced fighters.

Well. Those of them who'd survive.

"Sir! We got a sighting!"

Showtime.

***

"I don't like it."

"You worry too much, Nathan. Really. I've always preferred to visit the venues in which I am to speak. Gives me a feel for the audience and the room."

"That's the problem." Mike muttered glumly from the backseat. Kelly half turned, raising an eyebrow.  "Pardon?"

Thomson glared at Eddie and ignoring the latter resigned sigh plowed on. "Nathan is right, Senator.  This is not a good idea. It never was. Like you said - you've always done it. It's a pattern."

"Relax, gentlemen. We have three cars worth of escorts from every law enforcement agency known to man.  Unless they come after us with tanks, we are safe. " Kelly chuckled again, "You're with me on this, Eddie, right?"

Cable glanced at the rearview mirror, glowering, and caught the twin of the look hitting Eddie from Mike. The bleached bodyguard glared back. "Kills me to say it, Senator, but these two mother hens are right."

Kelly's head shook in silent laughter, short salt and pepper hair flying slightly out of place,  "Paranoid bunch, aren't you? Trust me, there will be no tanks coming after us tonight. I give you my word."

***

The doors of the First National Bank screamed and flew off the hinges, the glass shattering and covering the tiled floor like a jeweled shower. The patrons screamed and the security guards rushed the intruder, both actions equally and dismally futile.

Fred J. Dukes smiled, the crewcut of brown hair spiking above the low forehead. "Let's party."

***

"Ah well. " Eddie shrugged philosophically and unfolded a worn map, squinting, "This auditorium is squarely between two precincts headquarters. If something happens, they'll be there before you can say 'police brutality.' Right?"

Mike scowled but nodded reluctantly.

Eddie grinned, unable to resist, "Unless, you know… A war breaks out in the middle of New York."

***

The sirens of the First National were echoed by the ear splitting alarms in a building many blocks away.  There were screams here too, but less and most of them full of anger rather than fear. Many things could and were said about Friends of Humanity, but lack of suspicion and preparation for the mutant attacks on their head office were not among their many faults. For all the good it did them when the null fields suddenly went down along with most of the defensive perimeter and Rick Fletcher exploded inside their building. Literally.

His whoop didn't have the time to die down as the speedster rocketed through the yard and the foyer, liberally spraying everything around him with a modified assault rifle, followed by generous distribution of the hand grenades.

***

Robert Kelly ran up the short stairs and looked around the auditorium, from the platform. "Not bad."

"It's a flonqing nightmare."

"What'd you say, Nate?"  Cable jerked his head toward the pacing Senator, before repeating, "I said this place is a frigging nightmare, protection wise."

Eddie nodded and shrugged philosophically. "He's the boss. Ours is not to question why..."

"Right." Cable nodded absently, squinting as he continued to assess the room. "Well. At least we got all these uniforms and the Bureau guys on hand."

Eddie nodded again and unobtrusively corrected the holster, bulging his suit jacket. "Yeah. It should be enough."

"You think so, kid?"

Eddie turned around, surprised at the unexpected comment and blinked at the graying policeman that apparently followed the conversation. "Yeah. I think so. Why?"

The cop smiled and Cable's instincts screamed at him. But then it was much too late as the policeman's plain features melted and changed and it was Mystique with her gun barrel pointing squarely at his head. "Pipe."

***

"Shit."

"I think we're too late."

"Really?" Pike 's sarcasm was almost palpable as he glared at the Ascet, his energy staff glowing dark green. "What gave you that idea? Was it the screams or the gunfire?"

"Stow it!" Pike looked rebellious for a moment but subsided under Katu's glare. Satisfied, the older man nodded curtly and looked around, catching the eyes of his command. "All right, then. For what we're about to receive..."

"Let us be grateful."

Katu nodded as fifteen fists slammed against as many chests in unison. "Let's roll."

***

Cable came to in the midst of a surrealistic nightmare. The auditorium was dark -- the electricity apparently had gone out in the first minutes of the fight -- illuminated only by the muzzle flashes, beams and tracer rounds.

Nathan felt a sharp pain and touched the side of his head. Dully surprised as the hand came away red with blood. Apparently he'd raised his arm just in time, Mystique's shot ricocheting off the T-O mesh and dealing only a glancing blow instead of a killing one. He shook off the lightheaded feeling, getting up to his feet and groping for his gun.

"Senator!"

Cable's yell died unheard in the cacophony of the battle, and he snarled, casually batting away a psionic assault that suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere crashed into his defenses. He wheeled, trying to ascertain where the attack came from, and saw Kelly instead. The Senator, flanked by Michael and Eddie, was being herded carefully toward the back of the hall. Forgetting the hostile psi Nate sprang forward, only now noticing that his image inducer was broken, probably crushed in the fall. Shrugging it off he continued running, the scenes from the fight flickering around him like a broken film. He leapt over a uniformed body, than a black suited one, and ducked as another policeman fired at him. It soon seemed clear that there were three distinct groups in the auditorium, none working together. The remnants of the police and the FBI, who judging by the bodies on the floor were taking truly appalling causalities, appeared to be shooting at anything exhibiting deviation from a baseline human.

The second group was led by Mystique and Cable recognized many familiar faces. Toad was leaping and twisting and holding his own against two partial shape shifters, the claws and fangs flashing as the smaller mutants danced out of the way time after time.  To the side Post was hard pressed by a duo, unfamiliar to Cable, one wielding some sort of energy construct in a form of a Bo staff, the other pale and gaunt firing energy blasts from his hands. Clearly part of the third group. Nate swore as a stray shot missed his head by mere inches and twisted, his gun at the ready as he heard his curse echoed. Before he could shoot or ask questions, the tall blond winked out of sight, stepping out of the shadows a second later behind one of the policemen and knocking him out with a savage blow. " Are you out of your damn mind! We're trying to help you, here! Flatscans! I swear..."

Suddenly a movement in the corner of his eye caught Nathan's attention and another vile oath bubbled out as he recognized Mystique herself gliding smoothly through the hall toward Kelly. He watched as she dispatched one of the unknown mutants with a casual headshot before continuing on her way with the grim implacability of death. He gritted his teeth and leapt forward, noting another of the unknown mutants scream in pain suddenly and cast a fireball in the empty air in front of her, then fall clutching her head. Victim of the unknown psi.

The last desperate surge gave him just enough momentum to ram Kelly down just as Mystique fired.  Almost in unison Thompson and Eddie returned fire, and Darkholme casually reached out, grabbing an FBI agent and jerking him into the line of fire, shielding herself. Moment later she ducked and ghosted away, disappearing from view, the unfortunate agent pitching over slowly, his formerly white shirt blooming with crimson.

"Nate?!" Eddie's voice sounded incredulous. But he seemed to recover quickly, nodding and taking his gun off Cable, Thompson doing the same just a fraction faster. "We gotta get out of here."

"Back exit! Get him up and go. Mike - point. "

"On it."

Kelly seemed dazed as Nathan hauled him up in one quick brutal movement, "Nathan? What… Who are you?  What is... what is this?" His eyes seemed caught by the carnage of the battle being fought feet away.  As the air was split by the energy beams and animalistic growls, the occasional human -- in uniform or not -- seemed tragically out of place in the midst of the combat of enhanced reflexes and superhuman strength. Toad emerged momentarily from the general melee flipping over one of the policemen and breaking his neck with a casual snap kick.

"Future, Senator. This is my future."

"Better believe it, tin man."

"Nate, look out!"

He recognized the voice and lashed out with the full force of his mind before he even finished turning around to meet Sabretooth in hand to hand. Creed's head snapped back momentarily, but to Cable's shock he shook it off with almost contemptuous ease, baring his fangs in feral triumph and lunging for Nate's throat.

Mike swore as he vainly tried to distinguish between the two grappling men. "Fuck. No clear shot!"

"Forget it!" Eddie's voice cut through the din, clear and commanding, "We don't have time. Get the Senator ou... fuck!"   Eddie's Beretta barked time and again, but the blue skinned woman seemed to dance out of harm's way. Leaping forward her heel struck the younger bodyguard' temple and she landed catlike, shoving the unconscious body out of her way and grabbing Eddie's gun almost as an afterthought.

'Damn she's fast...'

To his credit Michael Thompson managed to squeeze off two shots before the bullet slammed into his chest, bringing heavy darkness.

The empty clip struck the floor with a muted clang and Robert Kelly swallowed and backed up as Mystique dropped the gun and drew a knife, its serrated edge gleaming in the glare of the burning furniture.  The woman remained silent, stalking gracefully toward him.

"No, Raven."

The flames flared brighter suddenly and Mystique stopped, the crimson eyes widening in recognition as a shadows receded, letting a slouching man in brown trench coat step between her and Kelly. "Can't let you do this."

"John..." Mystique's voice sounded almost pleading. "You don't understand! He has to die. You don't  know.. You haven't seen... the future..."

St. John Allerdyce shook his head, his eyes deep seated with dark circles under them, sadly amused.  " Future. Future is now, Raven. Believe me. Destiny...Fate... They are just words." He coughed and the fire rose higher still around them, illuminating him. Once proud and haughty, Pyro, master of fire, a writer and a terrorist.

Now just a tired man, his body ravaged by Legacy virus. His soul...

"I won't let you kill him, Raven. Can't."

***

Then:

Rory gripped the boy's shoulder in silent encouragement. He tried to find the words, but nothing came to mind except platitudes so he simply tightened his grip. The small, dry Chinese man across from him finished wiping his glasses and put them on. "This would be a risky investment for my employers. The child is young and yet he has already made enemies. His enemies would become our enemies, should he be given a place with the Brotherhood."

O'Donnell snorted. "This 'child.' " He stressed the word with biting sarcasm. "Manifested less than a day ago. Over the body of his best friend. And you don't have to worry about his enemies. He took care of most of them."

The Irish bouncer carefully schooled his face into an expressionless mask, desperately trying to block out the scene in the warehouse. The slender body of the black haired boy hanging limply from the chain, his face a mask of bruises. Red Claws did not let go lightly those caught stealing from them.

Of course everybody makes mistakes in judgment.

It took everything Rory had not to throw up right there as he saw what remained of the members of the gang. He had to walk through the hell of bodies reduced to bloody paste and body parts, macabre caricatures of themselves, the entire warehouse seemingly soaked in blood. The nightmare of a madman.

O'Donnell found him, sitting right under the body, the blood dripping straight down, splattering on his face and running down his neck, painting a gruesome and morbid design on the canvas of his body.

"Trust me. The Triads will not be disappointed if they take him in."

The glasses glinted as the representative of the most powerful criminal organization in Asia turned to regard the thin boy in front of him. "What is your name, child?"

The slanted, dark eyes remained locked on something visible only to the boy. A dull, dead expression that had been on his face ever since Rory carried him out of the warehouse.

"Child?"

Rory licked his lips. If the old man decided that the kid went nuts from the shock...

"It's Marcus."

O'Donnell started, his eyes widening.

"Marcus Malik Tsung."

[next part]

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