Disclaimer: Characters and universe belong to Marvel Entertainment Group. Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm. No permission has been received; no infringement on ownership is intended. I am not profiting financially from this.
Magik Lessons
by Persephone
~This is the absolute last time I listen to a sorceress who asks me to help her 'run a little errand.'~
Amanda Sefton, current bearer of the Soulsword, armor, and name of Magik, asked irritably if he were listening to a word she was saying.
"Sure I was. You said --"
"Don't repeat it, whatever you do!"
"I was listening."
"All right, all right...."
~ESPECIALLY if, when I tell her in the first place that I'm too busy, she tries to make me feel guilty by reminding me that she only wound up in the situation because my clone killed the girl she inherited it from! Best part is, that's not even accurate; the Soulsword was floating around for years before that.~
Magik put away the Soulsword to appear as simply Amanda, and looked seriously at him, opening her mouth.
Limbo hiccuped.
When it was done, Cable found himself looking down at Amanda sprawled on the ground, sword in hand and armor only partially covering her, and utterly still. He personally felt as incapacitatingly relaxed as if he'd just been thoroughly and mercilessly massaged, but adrenaline was driving that sensation away rapidly.
He knelt by her to check for signs of life. He found her mind first, blurrily, then a fluttering pulse. She wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon, though. What had hit them? And if Amanda was out, why wasn't he?
A vibration in the ground drew his attention away. Up. Towards the horde of... creatures bearing down on him.
Limbo's demons, in full force, with a one-armed figure he was quite sure he recognized as Belasco just visible on an appropriately dramatic hill behind the horde, were urged towards him by a cigar-punctuated visage. S'ym.
He had a personal grudge against S'ym. Being kidnapped and nearly killed because somebody had corrupted your mother was, he thought, very good grounds for a grudge.
The fact that he and Amanda faced imminent death at the hands (or perhaps feet, as the current front-runner for method of demise appeared to be trampling) of a troop of demons was grounds for a little more concern at the moment. The oncoming rush was more like thunder now, and he was cursing himself for not having brought his psimitar when, casting about for something that would at least feel more substantial than his own unassisted telekinetic shields did at the moment, his eye fell on the Soulsword.
It was supposed to be dangerous in itself. It apparently bound the bearer to Limbo. It was supposed to corrupt what it touched. It was supposed to be intangible to anyone not a sorcerer or otherwise magical. Could he even use it? His earlier meeting with Belasco suggested that perhaps he could, and might even suggest an explanation for his still being conscious.
There wasn't any more time to think, and as the first wave swept down on him he snatched at the hilt and surged to his feet, slashing viciously and feeling the blade tear through the first flesh it touched.
Something was very wrong. He'd grabbed the blade left-handed, and the ice-cold agony shrieking through his hand and climbing up his arm was completely wrong for the virus. He could still use the arm, though, so the pain and creeping chill were secondary. He was forced to deal out half a dozen strokes off-balance before he could settle his stance; he had no idea why he hadn't been knocked off his feet in the interim.
||Practice, that and I won't let you. To your left!||
Nathan couldn't escape the impression that the Soulsword had just talked to him. He swung to his left, ingrained skill guiding his motion, and took a careful step so that he stood over Amanda, guarding her.
The next time he looked down, five seconds later, she was gone. He knew he hadn't let anything get close enough --!
There was no time to worry, either, as his opponents tried to close around him and he had to twist to slice them all away. The chill was all the way to his shoulder now, still biting, and he still didn't know what it was, but it still hadn't hampered his movements -- even though the pain was getting worse. Much worse.
||Sorry about that.||
Had the sword just apologized to him?!
He'd actually had a talking sword once. It wasn't the one he'd first learned swordplay with; that had been a relatively normal, metallic blade with actual mass, weight he could feel in his hand. The talking one had been similar to the ion knife in behavior, though the principle was different because ion blades were awkward past a certain length. There had been an owner's manual electronically stored in the hilt.
It had been blue, and the blade had to be turned on and off. This was the real reason he'd choked on his popcorn the first time he saw _Star Wars_, and he was never, ever going to explain this to anyone.
The Soulsword felt light as a feather, almost insubstantial -- not as if everything but the hilt was almost massless, like an energy blade, just... small. Of course. It had belonged to a teenage girl, and its weight, length and balance were still adapted perfectly to Illyana's use, not that of an old soldier at least a foot taller and thrice her weight.
||I can fix that.||
He would really have preferred that the Soulsword not perform its obliging self-modifications in mid-swing. He supposed he was fortunate he'd been swinging it down, and not trying for anything extremely fancy or finessed.
By the next second it felt completely natural, as if the sword had never been any other way, as if it were part of him.
Cable had a feeling that should worry him.
He ripped the blade through one demon and watched in horror as it melded back together.
||Techno-organic, itself. Warlock's transmode virus, actually, or rather Magus's. Don't let it touch you!||
He was trying! Experimentally, he fed psi-energy into the sword and released it as he sliced again. His target flew apart, sparking slightly, and didn't regenerate.
||Ooh. I didn't know you could do that!||
~Neither did I.~
Not only was the sword talking to him, he'd just answered it. That might be worse.
His entire left side now felt pierced through with ice, from his shoulder down to his toes, and the chill was starting to creep past the usual boundary of the virus, across his chest. His opponents were pressing him harder, requiring more and more of his telekinesis as more of them were technological enough to recover from a blow delivered only against magic. He was breathing hard, though he hadn't slowed down, and the stench of sulfur was ever stronger in his nostrils.
Weren't you supposed to get used to a bad smell, and quit smelling it? But that only worked when it didn't keep on increasing.
It finally occurred to him that with Amanda having disappeared and no strategic advantage -- he was already surrounded -- there was little or no reason to keep on defending this little patch of ground, and accordingly he abandoned it, taking the demons around him by surprise as he charged toward the oncoming ones.
He really shouldn't be able to mow through them like that, but apparently the general run of Limbo's denizens were more interested in tormenting the helpless and eating each other than in practicing combat skills.
Not that they were wimps, by any stretch of the imagination, but Cable's progress still resembled that of a bulldozer.
He was cold all over, now, but the pain was starting to ease, just barely. That could be good or bad, especially with even the energy he normally used against the virus mostly turned against Belasco's army. He couldn't let it worry him right now.
N'astirh appeared at his elbow and he lashed out. It was very satisfying to see that particular demon fall apart. The next instant he felt an impact on his right shoulderblade, but no pain, and found a transmoded tentacle reaching past him. Realizing it was too late to avoid contact and cursing his inattention, he grabbed it and yanked.
His right arm had gone metal. He must have lost control of the virus after all. Sick fear jostled the battle-rage for space.
That possibility seemed to provide a depressingly good explanation for the icy pain's sudden seizure of the right half of his neck and head. He tried to shake it off and ignore the growing weight, tearing towards S'ym to distract himself.
S'ym stared at Cable and the cigar fell out of his mouth shortly before the Soulsword and telekinesis tore him irretrievably apart. No blood. Just circuits.
||Good!|| The Soulsword hissed viciously in his mind and through the air.
The only thing now between Nathan Dayspring and Belasco was the slope of a hill; all pursuers had been cut down or outrun -- or in a few cases apparently eaten by Limbo, which seemed unwontedly supportive of Cable for a land Belasco was supposed to be ruling. Perhaps Belasco still wanted something from him?
If so, Nathan determined, he wasn't going to get it. Unless it was death. In that case he would be all too happy to oblige.
"It is good to see you again," Belasco hissed, a sword of his own appearing and flashing smoothly up to guard.
"No," Cable grunted, "it isn't."
The conversation gave up and fled. Shielding as best he could against the blow he expected every moment to receive in his back, Cable dueled Belasco. The Soulsword hissed encouragement, advice, instruction in Belasco's fighting style. It drew back for him when he overextended once.
Belasco had not, perhaps, been directly responsible for what had happened to Nathan as a baby. Then again, he'd been responsible for Illyana's own kidnapping and her corruption and probably most of the condition of Limbo overall -- and Cable's previous meeting with him had not been friendly.
The Soulsword hated him.
When Cable gained the upper hand, he pressed the advantage so quickly that Belasco didn't realize he was in trouble until he was doomed. The sorcerer's guard slipped once; the Soulsword sliced through his chest, shrieking exultantly into Nathan's mind, even as Belasco's mouth opened.
He never had the chance to ask this opponent for mercy.
As an added insult, while his mouth still worked and his life fled away, the Soulsword lazily arced back to lop off his remaining arm.
The ground thundered. Cable stood panting over his defeated (and disarmed) foe and turned back to look for more opponents -- and there were none. He had no idea where they'd gone, but an odd awareness was creeping into his head that suggested he would know how to find out in a moment.
It wasn't comfortable at all, and he was still freezing. On the other hand, if that was all the virus was going to do, it could be worse.
||You did it!|| the Soulsword told him, with great enthusiasm. Then it turned more serious and formal. ||Limbo is yours, now.||
What was he supposed to do with it?
Granted, he'd been feeling purposeless and lost since that last battle with Apocalypse, and Scott's loss, but taking over an otherdimensional realm had really not occurred to him as a remedy.
||I'm afraid you're stuck with it now. If you give it up, it will revert to someone worse, and if you ignore it, no one will keep it from attacking Earth. And you know what its interactions with Earth are like.||
Right.
This was even weirder than his OLD mission in life.
He wanted to go home.
He'd better find Amanda, too.
||What do you mean, find her? You sent her home.||
~I did?~
||Yes.||
~Is she all right?~
||She's probably concussed, and might have trouble doing spells anytime soon. Or perhaps at all. She'll live, though.||
~Good,~ he replied, a little uncertainly.
He still wanted to go home. He wanted Dom. He wanted to go somewhere he could rest, and he wanted to get warm.
||Go through that disc.||
He hesitated for a long moment, then stepped into it and sank down -- but no, his feet were on something solid, and the disc was rising. Wonderful. He was stuck with a talking sword and the rulership of Limbo, and now gravity was playing tricks.
On the bright side, he was home, or at any rate on Earth instead of in Limbo. At least, he thought that was the bright side.
He was still cold, weary, and probably dripping blood on the floor. Or whatever that gunk from the demons had been. The fact that it had steamed slightly and looked more purplish than red or brown worried him a bit. He was probably covered with it, but he wasn't sure he wanted to look down at himself to see. Between goo and metal, he wasn't sure his stomach could take it. Assuming he still had a stomach.
It wasn't what he'd expected of the virus. Before, it had always been either numbing or painful, or some combination of the two. Now the agony of the first spreading iciness had abated, but the remaining chill did nothing to numb what felt like perfectly normal muscle aches all through his body.
Stumbling a little, left hand still clenched almost without his realization around the hilt of the Soulsword, he found his way to the thermostat and peered at it with great concentration for a few moments before adjusting it upwards by several degrees. Waste of energy, probably. Hypothermia wasn't good either though.
Water. Maybe he should get a drink of water. Coffee would be good too. Coffee would be very good. But there wasn't any coffee, and if he had a drink of water, maybe he would be sufficiently hydrated to make coffee without doing anything alarming like adding flour to it. Or grapes. He still hadn't figured out what he was thinking during the incident with the grapes.
The closest sink, Nathan concluded, thinking all the while that he shouldn't have to think so hard about the floor plan of a place he should know like the back of his hand, was in the bathroom right through the bedroom nearest to the thermostat. He was on his way there when he froze and nearly cramped his hand around the hilt at the sight of his own face and form framed by silver armor beside the wardrobe.
His first thought, not counting an instantaneous territorial instinct, was that Stryfe looked unusually haggard and this just might be an excellent time to finish him off. He took a step forward, raising the sword he'd almost forgotten he held --
The figure opposite him raised an identical sword in its right hand.
That was a mirror.
That meant it was his own reflection standing there in silver armor.
"AAAAAH! FLONQ!"
He felt slightly better once that was out of his system, and made a concerted effort to think rationally. This should not be a surprise. The Soulsword was known to confer armor on people whether they liked it or not, though he understood Doom had held it off for some time. Of course, Nathan admitted to himself, he hadn't even been attentive enough to hold off the technovirus, much less unfamiliar armor.
What was it about demons putting him in stupid-looking armor? D'Spayre had --
||They didn't. I did.|| The Soulsword vibrated in his hand, an irritated (and irritating) buzz. ||What are you complaining about? It looks fine, and it is useful. What do you think kept the transmoded ones from eating you when you got too close?||
Well, it wasn't armor itself he objected to. It was looking like Stryfe.
||Other way around.||
That too!
Maybe it wasn't that bad. He wasn't transmoded -- funny, what he could see of his face didn't look techno-organic, either. If he'd been transmoded he could have had all the energy sucked out of him at worst, and at best he'd have another weird disease to contend with. He didn't feel injured -- not that techno-organic mesh was easy to injure, or to recognize as injured. The armor didn't look quite like Stryfe's. Different lines. Smoother. Thorns in a few spots, no spikes.
It was still too close for comfort.
There was a soft gasp from behind him and a tiny crash. Nathan whirled to see Irene staring at him.
"It's all right. It's me. I mean, I'm me. Not Stryfe. Despite the armor." Now he was babbling.
Irene relaxed very slightly. Cable suspected this was more because based on what he'd told her of Stryfe she would have expected a mindwipe instead of a rather flustered attempt at reassurance than because the attempt at reassurance was inherently all that convincing.
Faced with little other choice, he addressed the Soulsword. ~How do I get rid of it?~
||Why do you want to get rid of it?|| It sounded sulky.
~I just do. I don't need to wear armor ALL the time and I don't like it anyway.~
||Nobody ever appreciates it....||
~Tell. Me. How. To. Get. Rid. Of. It!~
||Fine. Ingrate. Thrust me into your abdomen.||
~WHAT?!~
||I'm not trying to get you killed. I'm yours now. It's not fair to either of us, of course, but in a way it is. That's the only way to sheathe me. I'm part of Illyana Rasputin's soul; I have to be sheathed in a body. The worst it will do to you is infect you with the desire for revenge.||
~Too late.~
He slid the Soulsword into himself, somehow through the armor it generated, and the armor disappeared. So did the sword.
"Irene." He took a deep breath. "You remember I mentioned Limbo?"
"When you were a baby...."
"Right." He searched for words. "I think it finally caught up with me. Or vice versa." Another pause. "Oath, Irene, how am I supposed to announce I...." He trailed off, turning back to the mirror to stare at his reflection.
His eye had been caught, not by a glint, but by the lack of one.
He wasn't hiding the virus, and his left hand was flesh.
And he felt like he had a lot more energy available than usual, come to think of it. He'd been using a lot more than he'd normally been able to for a while there.
The weird spears of pain had only been where the techno-organics were. Now, they were all gone.
Apparently the transmode virus wasn't the only one magical armor was inimical to.
"I...uh... got the T-O cured? And... accidentally took up extradimensional conquest."
Irene gave him a long look while she retrieved her luckily unbroken mug from the floor. Fortunately, having been both a tabloid reporter and Nathan's chronicler, she was used to strange stories. "Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"Does this have anything to do with your having turned the thermostat up to 'broil alive'?"
"Yes."
Another long look. "Want me to call Domino?"
"Are you kidding?"
"Nope."
"...Yes."
"Want to tell me about this over coffee in the meantime?"
"Definitely."