Ellison Knightly, he'd lost his family in the conflict, same as I;two suicide bombings. Before I joined Achmed el-Gibar's ranks Ellison was our mentors prize pupil.
It was his green eyes and sandy hair that made me compete with him, my schoolgirl's crush pushed me to be closer to him; forcing me to graduate from pickpocket to grand larcenist. He was six years older than I and as far as he was concerned I was a cootie, but to me he was a god. So I did what children do; pushed him in the dirt and pretended that loot was far more important than his affections.
By the time I was twelve he was old enough to respect the woman-child I had become and without coaxing from Achmed he began to include me in his excursions.
I told him first of my inner urgings to travel south and when these plans had come to fruition I relished the farewell embrace he offered.
I still swell with the same warmth at my memories of him.
I haven't seen him since I left our guild; when I returned to Egypt years ago I found that he was no longer among their ranks. Recently, I've become familiar with his status as an organized criminal in Madripoor, while he remains true to his background as a thief, he is the leader of a small gang that boasts membership including former denizens of The Hand and Shield.
It worries me now that I hold a picture of my friend, blindfolded in a small stark room.
While I'm confident that in time he has amassed an impressive number of adversaries, I'm positive that somehow my relationship with him prompted this kidnapping, not any lone sin he's committed against another.
The picture does not come with an accompanying note outlining the appropriate threats, however, I gather that if I do not make it to Madripoor soon, I will receive a parcel signifying the demise of Ellison Knightly.
This is a personal affair and in similar cases I would not involve the X-men, however, any trip to Madripoor calls for backup.
Emma Frost, since she's joined the ranks of the X-men, we've enjoyed an uneasy trust. Despite the bad blood between us, she was once the White Queen of the Hellfire Club and has a profound wealth of experience dealing with depraved criminal royalty and the duality of being both muscle and mind will come in handy.
"Hullo Storm."
I wince at her affected British accent and wonder why she even bothers covering her breasts; she's practically naked in a white halter top.
I explain the mission, what I know of it, and why I've elected to involve her; needless to say she is flattered where others would be insulted.
"I'll come along," she says, smiling wryly. "I do so love humidity and bugs that swat back."
Elizabeth Braddock, her sessions in the danger room are almost like ballet, her movements artfully fluid and graceful. While the initial success she has as a combatant were rewards born of the efforts of Lady Mandarin, Psylocke has proved her tenacity in improving and evolving her skills as a martial artist.
She is somewhat a wild card in that since her transformation she has stopped fighting smartly and instead optioned for close, risky hand to hand battles. With her telepathy she could have fell most of her opponents from a distance but she preferred her psychic knife. Now with her telekinesis she uses it as weapons and a reinforcement of her physical strength. Her motor skills leave much to be desired; her telekinesis could punch a hole through a mountain, but she lacks the surgeons proficiency expected of a veteran X-man.
Despite these flaws she remains as effective as any X-man on the battle field.
"Hullo Storm," she says, accent completely authentic. She pauses in action because Danger Room sessions automatically stop when the door is opened.
"I have a personal mission," I say, considering my words, unsure how to ask her to join me in Madripoor. It seems to be an unwritten rule amongst the X-men that unofficial matters are almost always handled solo, however, in this case I'm certain that I need help.
"Of course."
I pause for a second and add, "Emma will be joining us."
"So we'll be spending most of our time in the brothels, I imagine?"
We travel commercially, although our faces aren't exactly inconspicuous in Madripoor I still prefer subtlety.
While leaving the airport we're mobbed by a small group of beggars, tiny beautiful children whose parents have put them upon this lifestyle to feed the family. My eyebrow twitches slightly when I wonder what other tasks their parents expect of them to make money.
I give them some pittance, while I observe a particularly frail one lift Emma's wallet from her Hermes bag; usually she would psychically sense the robbery but in bustling crowds like this it isn't uncommon for a telepath to close their mind.
"Good God, Ororo! Isn't there soap on this godforsaken island? Or is armpit their national symbol?" Emma complains, and I must admit that the smell is rather overwhelming, but we are in Lowtown and few here care for hygiene when rape, frivolous murder and starvation are more common than not.
"We need to get to the Princess Bar," I say, hailing a taxicab and helping Emma and Betsy shove their luggage into the trunk; the driver remains in his seat.
"We've got to be on guard at all times," Betsy says, in the cab, looking at Emma and I. "Fighters here aren't lightweights; this won't be the usual scuffle, two against one in Madripoor isn't like two against one in New York, these people are as well trained as we are."
"So we should use our powers then?" Emma says, staring forward, no doubt tweaking the drivers perceptions so that he believes he hears another conversation.
Usually I would not approve of such exercises in the use of her telepathy, and I do not doubt that she would do it either way, but in situations such as these some rules must be amended.
The last time I visited Madripoor a number of my team almost died, I was dead for a while and I left in a wheel chair with the use of my powers as crippled as my legs. I plan to leave this time in one piece with both Emma and Betsy unscathed.
The Princess Bar isn't grand or even mildly attractive, it look like a small rundown factory, two thousand square feet of screened windows and chipped brick, with the appropriate filth.
"There isn't fresh air anywhere in Lowtown is there?" Emma asks as we enter the bar: It smells of body must and used liquor coming out of pores.
The place looks lazy during the day; there are people sitting at the stools in the bar hunched over, practically sleeping and an overweight man and woman playing pool on a weathered pool table.
The cigarette smoke is constant and I doubt that it ever airs out.
The lights go out almost immediately; my eyesight is almost as keen as Logan's and although I can't discern identity, I can make out their forms. Emma's telepathy act as a substitute for her eyes and Psylocke's stringent training as a ninja affords her the ability to fight without needing to see.
Too bad that we won't need to test our mettles in the pitched darkness; I weave a tapestry of lightning just below the ceiling and it lights the room in dark blue light and I recognize our assailant immediately, despite his disguises.
Apparently, before us stands Davis and Heather Cameron but inside of them is the living breathing incarnation of true evil.
In all of my life I've met and known many adversaries but I've only known one man to be truly evil, one single entity that is in fact wholly inhuman, who relishes and bloats in his deviance.
Amahl Farouk, Shadow King.
A/N: It must be said that this story does not follow the continuity of Shadow Kings involvements with Rogue, assume that he has been trapped on the Astral Plane, inactive, since Psylocke lost her telepathy.