Chapter One: Only Human

It was a cold, clear night in Washington D.C, and inside the Whitehouse ballroom, Emma Frost was the Sun and all the power players of Washington merely planets trapped in her orbit.

Congressman Dale Nelson wasn't immune as he watched her stalk through the crowd of champagne-swilling glitterati like a lionness through tall grass. He observed her in her natural habitat as she stopped to engage the director of S.H.I.E.L.D and his wife in a bit of chit chat, and as the light caught her blue eyes they glittered like jewels. Then she shifted in her tasteful heels, and offered him a sideways glimpse of a body so luscious as to entice a lascivious thought from every man and a good third of the women in attendence. She made his blood boil, and when she looked his way, it was enough to make his head swim. Which is why, as he lustfully watched the sway of her hips in a curve-hugging white Versace gown with swollen lust in his heart, he felt no shame. Even with his lovely wife of 19 years by his side. Surely she'll understand, he thought. After all, I'm only human.

"I see why you bring her with you to these things," Nelson said to billionaire industrialist Sebastian Shaw. Shaw was a stern-faced man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a full head of jet-black hair. His eyes were lumps of coal and his veiny hands were almost abnormally large and powerful-looking as he gripped a tiny champagne flute and watched over the crowd in his $5,000 Caraceni suit.

"Oh?" Shaw said, raising a bushy black eyebrow.

If the rumors were true, Sebastian Shaw was well into his fifties, but to Dale Nelson's eyes, the man didn't look a day over thirty-five. If Nelson was being truthful with himself, and he strived to always be so, it had him more than a little off-balance. He imagined it did the same for Shaw's business competitors. "To distract your enemies," Nelson said. "She's very," he paused, a dark look in his eyes, "distracting."

Shaw smiled, and to Nelson, he looked like a shark in an incredibly nice suit. Nelson found that a little threatening as well, since it had always been his preference to be the biggest shark in any room he happened to occupy. "Distract my enemies?" Shaw laughed. "What makes you think I have enemies?"

"This is Washington," Nelson said, "Everyone has enemies." He took a sip of champagne and noticed Ms. Frost approaching. Sweet Jesus, he thought. She really is something else. Then he fought with himself to focus on the task at hand and tried to recall everything he knew about Sebastian Shaw. It wasn't much. He was born in Pittsburgh, fifty-some-odd years ago, got a degree in engineering from MIT, and shortly thereafter, set to work on building his claim to fame, Shaw International. It was there that he mixed an unparalleled work ethic with immense creativity, and shrewd business practices to become, according to the latest copy of Forbes, "the eighth richest man in America." And then Frost came closer, her blonde hair like spun gold, her milk-white skin radiating an ethereal heat, and Nelson felt his stomach clench at the nearness of her. I can't believe I'm actually nervous to be around her, he thought to himself. It was exciting. So, he decided to do what he always did when a woman excited him. Impress her. "Take the people in this ballroom for example," he said. "How many of these diplomats, dignitaries, and business execs do you think are foreign spies?"

"I couldn't begin to even hazard a guess," Shaw said. His expression said he was clueless, but still curious.

"Just one guess," Nelson said. "And I'll make my point."

Shaw looked to his companion with feigned fluster. "Emma?"

She wasted no time. "Eleven," she said. And there was a spark of mischief in her ice-blue eyes.

Nelson laughed as if a child had just told him they should ride their bikes to the moon. "That's what I mean, Shaw. Washington…the world…is a much more dangerous place than you realize."

Shaw smiled that shark-like grin of his, and Nelson gave them his best I-mean-business-look, like he was about to impart some great bit of wisdom to his new companions and they would do well to take note. "I'd say there are at least fifty spies here at this party. And I think I'm being conservative."

"That is what you are good at, isn't it," Emma said, "being conservative?" She gave him a look that could cut glass, then she snaked her arm around Shaw's and whispered in his ear.

"Emma is confident there are only eleven spies at this particular Whitehouse charity ball, Congressman Nelson." Shaw continued to flash that shark-like grin. "Not that it matters one way or the other, but I am inclined to believe her."

Nelson' gaze hardened on the woman. "Please, call me Dale." Then he leaned in, put a hand on Shaw's shoulder and whispered conspiratorially. "Can we talk? Away from the women?"

Shaw nodded. "Emma, darling. Perhaps you can introduce Mrs. Nelson here to some of your friends?"

"Certainly dear." Then, smiling, she took the older woman by the arm and led her off. "Come on, Rhonda," she said. "Let's let the men do their thing, and see if we can't stir up some trouble. Have you met Tony Stark?"

When they were gone, Nelson turned to Shaw. "She's breathtakingly beautiful but, perhaps you shouldn't rely so heavily on the council of a woman."

"Emma Frost is the CEO of a Fortune 100 company, and well-versed in the ways of politics and power, among other things. As far as inner cirlces go, one could do a lot worse."

"I meant no offense."

Shaw waved away his apology with one powerful hand. "So tell me, what is it you would like to discuss…away from the women?"

"Robert Kelly," Nelson said. "Do you know him?"

"Junior Republican Senator from Massachusetts. Four years at Georgetown. Harvard Law. A man whose rising star nearly rivals your own."

Nelson nodded. "My only real competition for the Republican party candidacy." He took a sip of champagne. "The Democrats have had their run, the country's ready to put a Republican back in office. I think it should be me," he said.

"The public is afraid of the mutant population, and they no longer believe a democrat can protect them."

"But, I can protect them."

"Ah, ambition." One of Shaw's diamond cufflinks caught the light and shone like a tiny star.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Quite the contrary," Shaw said. He stood as still as an old oak, making Nelson wonder if their wasn't some elite military service hidden on his record somewhere. "I believe ambition is the greatest virtue a man can have."

"I agree. And what greater ambition than to be the most powerful man in the world?"

"Indeed."

Nelson put an arm on his shoulder. "I'd like to offer you the chance to get in on the ground floor."

"Of your run to the White House?"

"Yes," Nelson said with a smile.

Shaw smiled back. "You're a smart man, Nelson-"

"Call me Dale."

Shaw went on. "You're a smart man. Cold, calculating, and bold. Above all things, bold. I know you don't offer this friendship for free."

"No, but the price is small."

"Dare I ask?"

"We need to slow Kelly's ascent."

Shaw nodded. Then paused for a brief moment to think, one hand cupping his chin. "Sex scandal?"

Nelson shook his head. "Never happen. I've already had my people checking. He has no taste for boys and he's still not over his wife's untimely death."

"I'm sure I could figure something out." Shaw let his gaze drift over to where Emma stood.

"After losing his wife, the public sympathizes with him too much. They might even be willing to forgive certain…indescretions. No, the only thing that can slow a man like him down is failure. Massive, epic, highly-publicized failure."

"You sound as if you already have something in mind."

"I do. There is a special project that Kelly is spearheading. A U.S. think tank in the Nevada desert, run by a Dr. Trask, has been quietly developing a program called Sentinel. It's supposed to be Kelly's answer to this country's rapidly growing mutant problem. Reports on what exactly the project entails are inconclusive, but it doesn't matter. I need you to make sure the Sentinel program fails, and fails miserably."

"I thought you were on the anti-mutant bandwagon as well. Won't this hurt the cause?"

"Screw the cause. The only thing I'm interested in is seeing this blow up in Kelly's face."

"I see," Shaw said. "And what is it you think my money can do that no one else's can? Afterall, there's Wilson Fisk." He pointed to a massive bald man in a white suit. "There's Tony Stark." He motioned towards a handsome man with slick, black hair who clutched a bottle of Cristal, and stood amidst a cluster of gorgeous women. "And there, talking to the Secretary of Defense, is Norman Osborn." He gestured at a wild-eyed, auburn-haired man holding court with SecDef.

"All rich bastards, to be sure. But, I was told that you were the only one with the imagination to do what I need done."

"The only rich bastard with the imagination to do what you need done."

"I meant no disrespect."

"Of course not."

"I'm not asking for a favor," Nelson said. His tone was placatory. "I come bearing gifts. As I said before, I'll take you with me, all the way to the Whitehouse."

Shaw finished his drink and plucked another flute of champagne from the tray of a passing server. "A couple of years from now?"

"What's a couple of years to men like us?"

"Everything," Shaw said, fixing him with a hard stare. "Time is everything. And a couple of years is far too long to wait to reap the benefits of this arrangement."

Nelson's brow furrowed. "I'm listening."

"There is an island in Southeast Asia called Madripoor. The U.S. embargo of Madripoor has crippled the country's economy, helping to foster an atmosphere of crime and corruption that makes it hard for men like me to do business there. You get the embargo lifted, and I'll take care of your Kelly problem."

"I know a little bit about Madripoor," Nelson said, "and their human rights reputation is atrocious, and I mean South African-apartheid-atrocious. There's no way I can get that embargo lifted. I have a lot of friends in this town, but no one has enough friends to make that happen."

"Then, make more friends."

Nelson shook his head. You're not hearing me. It's impossible."

"Nevertheless, that's my price. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I've had enough partying for one night." He started to walk off, then turned back to face Nelson. "I wouldn't ask this if I didn't think it was possible. After all, you're only human." Then he walked off and left Dale Nelson clutching two empty champagne flutes.

The junior Senator from Massachussetts, Robert Kelly, loved one thing above all else: success. Which is why he so enjoyed Whitehouse parties. After all, what could benefit his desire for upward advancement more than rubbing elbows with the most powerful people in the world on a consistent basis?

So, as he stood there in a black Chiari suit and soaked in the evening's excitement, he sipped from his champagne flute and coolly watched the crowd. What are you up to Dale? he wondered, as he spotted Congressman Dale Nelson speaking in hushed tones to business mogul Sebastian Shaw. Part of him wanted to go over and throw his hat in the ring, Sebastian Shaw would be a powerful ally to have. But, he decided against it. I'll wait. Wouldn't want to look desparate. Desparate equals weak. "Never appear weak," his father used to say. But, over the course of his political career he'd learned that sometimes it was advantageous to feign weakness. However, now was not one of those times, and as he continued to sip champagne and watch the crowd, he spotted S.H.I.E.L.D director, Nick Fury, headed down the hallway, presumably for the men's room. Kelly straightened a silk tie that wasn't out of place and headed to intercept the salt-and-pepper-haired man.

"Director Fury," he called as he caught up to him.

Fury was dressed in a single-breasted, charcoal Calvin Klein suit, and a beautiful, platinum, Harry Winston watch adorned his right wrist. Kelly's gaze was drawn directly to the watch, and not just because it was beautiful. Fury had a well-known penchant for the gadgets produced by his agency's Science and Technology Directorate. There was no telling what high-tech weaponry was concealed within the inner workings of the time piece. Kelly had once heard tale of an instance where Fury was upset with a subordinate, and with the press of a single button, he melted the man down to a red-pink puddle. The senator felt a wave of dread and anxiety at the thought of Fury melting him down to a puddle with the touch of a button. And the fear he felt didn't seem at all an irrational thing at the moment. When I'm president, the first thing I'll do is get one of those watches, he thought.

The director greeted him with a smile, "Robert."

"A moment of your time, after you're done of course." The men's room was ten feet away.

"Why wait?" Fury said. Then, he turned and strided for the door. Kelly anxiously followed.

The bathroom was bathed in soft, amber light, and smelled of citrus fruit. A large photograph of Sir Edmund Hillary at the top of Mount Everest hung on the far wall. Kelly found himself staring at it, entranced.

"You want in on this?" Fury said. That's when Kelly looked down and realized the director of SHIELD had just offered him a silver, 8oz flask. Kelly was more than a little startled, and reflexively took it. "Wife never lets me drink at these things," Fury said as Kelly took a pull. "Shit, can you imagine not being able to drink at one of these godawful parties?"

Kelly winced as the whiskey burned his throat. "No sir, I cannot." He handed the flask back to Fury and the director took a long drink. When he was done he met Kelly with narrow, intelligent eyes. "So," he said, "what do you want?"

"I hear you're not gonna run."

Fury took a drink. "Nope. You can rest easy."

"Haven't lost your stomach for politics have you?"

Fury laughed heartily at that. "I never had much stomach for politics. Too many vices. The three Bs do me in every time."

"The three Bs?"

"Booze, babes, and Black Ops."

They both laughed.

"You're an ornery sonofabitch, I'll give you that," Kelly said.

"Now you sound like my ex-wife."

"Which one?"

Fury laughed again. "Kelly, you old dog, who knew you had a sense of humor?"

"Certainly not the nuns back in grade school. And I've got the welts to prove it." He rubbed his backside for effect.

"I always wanted to bag a nun," Fury said, thoughtfully. "Let's see, first wife was a welder. Really hot, if you can believe it. Second wife was a painter. Real messy, real fun."

"Third wife?"

"Retired fashion model."

"You're moving up in the world."

"Don't I know it. But, I've already got wife number four in my sights."

"Do I know her?"

"That depends. Do you know Julia Roberts?"

"The movie star?"

"The one and only."

Kelly smiled and shook his head. "Dream big, I guess."

"Not dream big. Go big. Or go home," Fury said. "Wheels are already in motion."

Go big or go home, Kelly thought. Sound advice. And he took it. "You like running SHIELD, don't you?" It was a rhetorical question. He knew Fury loved his job. The same job he'd held for the last seven years. Ever since President Golden had offered him the position shortly after his own inauguration. That was a strange friendship, Kelly thought: the privileged son of a Supreme Court Judge, and a scruffy, rough-necked war hero. But, he supposed if you introduced a man to his future wife, sometimes social class could be overlooked.

Fury's eyes narrowed. "I've had worse jobs."

"But, have you had better?"

Fury took a swig, never taking his eyes off the presidential candidate.

"I could use a man like you in my corner."

Fury raised an eyebrow, obviously not an easily startled man. "What?"

"You could pick your post. Secretary of Defense, State, Vice President, you name it. It's yours. I'd even let you keep the SHIELD command, if that's what you want."

Fury looked at him with doubt in his eyes. "Cross party lines, Robert?"

"Stranger things have happened."

"And what would I have to do?"

"Commit."

"To what? And don't tell me that godawful Sentinel program."

"The Sentinel Initiative is going to happen, Fury. One way, or another."

"Then what do you need me for?"

"Don't play coy with me. Not only are you too old for it, but so am I."

Fury frowned.

"You're a war hero," Kelly went on. "The public looks up to you. With a positive endorsement from you, this thing could go a whole lot smoother."

"Those machines are an abomination."

"The mutants are an abomination." Kelly tugged on his tie. His voice was cool, but his eyes burned like black suns. As long as Fury couldn't read eyes, Kelly felt sure his emotions wouldn't betray him.

"Just tell me this isn't about revenge."

Guess he can read eyes, Kelly thought. "What's revenge compared to national security? These monsters are everywhere."

"You know what I see, if those machines are allowed into action? I see internment camps, civil rights violations, human rights violations, riots, war. This country's been through all that before. Nobody wants to go down that road again."

"Human rights violations? They're not human!"

"They are human, Kelly. They just don't look like us."

"Think what you want," Kelly said. "But, the mutant problem is real, Fury. Two weeks ago in Chicago, a mutant behemoth wearing a metal helmet robbed nearly half the banks in the city. A dozen officers were killed, the police were helpless to stop him. Last week, a school in Ohio was burned to the ground by the first manifestation of a mutant girl's ability to charge the molocules in the air around her. Six children and one teacher died. Two days ago in Manhattan there were eye witness reports that a mutant calling himself Spiderman robbed and assaulted a group of elderly citizens."

"My organization is aware of all of those things," Fury said. "And I'm not saying you don't have a point. Times are changing-"

Kelly interrupted him. "And we need to change with them." Time for the big guns, Kelly thought to himself. "I'm even hearing rumors of a mutant terrorist organization…" Kelly let his words hang. He knew the word, terrorist, was catnip to men like Fury.

"You shouldn't be hearing those kinds of rumors," Fury said. His face and mood darkened.

"Is it true?"

Fury frowned, then seemed to relent. "First, I'm going to need to know where you heard that rumor." Then he emptied the flask of whiskey down his gullet and glared at the possible next President of the United States. "Second," he sighed. "I'm not going to fight you on the Sentinel program."

Sebastian Shaw and Emma Frost climbed into the backseat of a black Mercedes Limousine flanked by a knot of Whitehouse-isssue, crew-cut-wearing, M4-toting, Marine bodyguards. "You don't mind if I swoon do you?" Emma asked. "All these Marines, what's a girl to do?"

"Be my guest," Shaw said. He produced a Cuban cigar from his inner jacket pocket, bit the end off and lit it as he took a few quick pulls. The limo quickly filled with smoke and the aroma of the fine cigar. Notes of mahogany wood, amber, vanilla oil, and fine tobacco danced for his senses and made a sweet, smokey, gray fog. He knew Emma wouldn't mind the smell, since she'd once told him a story about how her grandfather used to always smoke cigars whenever he visited her father's country estate. Actually she'd done more than tell him a story. She'd shown him. It was one of the little oddities of being friends with a top-shelf telepath. She'd projected images into his mind of the visits her grandfather would make. Their trips to her father's study where he would go to smoke. How he would sit her on his knee. And then she showed Shaw how her grandfather's hands would disappear into places she had never been touched. And how at first she didn't like it, but then she grew to enjoy it very much. She showed him how soon the relationship escalated, and she showed him how after a few years of this, she began to realize she could use her body to control her grandfather, and later on, all men. And this was before the telepathy kicked in. Then, when she was just eighteen years old, she used her influence over her grandfather to usurp her father as heir to the family's financial empire. Her father and older siblings had despised her for this. But, what could they do? Her power grew by the day, and so did her ruthlessness. And as Shaw watched her now, through the haze of cigar smoke, he could see the change in her. Her muscles relaxed, her eyes entered a dreamy state, and a roguish smile crept across her face.

"Perhaps I should take a few of them home to play with," she said. Her voice was like velvet. It was the cigar smoke. It got her every time. If he'd had any sense at all he would've never lit the damn thing, but it was too late now.

"I don't suppose I could dissuade you of that?"

"Now Sebastian," she said. "Don't be such a fuddy duddy." She propped herself up onto her knees, back arched, chest out. She batted her eyes. "I've been a good girl all night. Allow me this little indulgence?"

He sighed. "Fine." And he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. He knew she could sense his regret, but it didn't matter to her. Her eyes flashed, and the door opened, and three handsome, clean-shaven, blank-faced Marines climbed into the car. Emma grinned wide like the cat that ate the canary. "Boys," she called, with open arms. Her voice was thick with excitement. "Come to momma."

Shaw shook his head, then caught the driver watching them in the rearview mirror. "Home," he told the man, then he thumbed the button and raised the partition.

"Why do you do it, Sebastian?" She was curled up on the lap of her new toys like a lazy cat.

"Do what?" He puffed his cigar and stared out the window.

"Why do you play these games with the humans? Wouldn't it be easier to use my telepathy to get us everything we desire?" One of the marines kissed her wrist.

"You said it yourself, there are beings with extraordinary psychic power out there and you can feel them exerting their will, influencing events, pushing and pulling. You being as powerful as you are leads me to believe that when you make big moves, they can feel you as well." He continued to look out the window, refusing to acknowledge the orgy about to take place a few feet from where he sat.

"And you fear them?" she asked. Her voice was thick with disgust. "You wish to hide from them?" Two Marines kissed each side of her neck.

"I wish to hide from everyone," he said, turning to face her. "That's how the Hellfire Club rules, Emma. From the shadows." He ground his cigar out in the ash tray. He'd lost his taste for the thing.

"I do not fear Farouk, or Xavier, or any of the others," she said. "Let them feel my power and be humbled by it." Her eyes flashed with anger as she spoke.

Shaw could feel the air inside the limo grow thick with invisible energy.

"Emma, stop it."

"You lower yourself to make congress with them. It cheapens you. It's behavior unfitting of a king." The three Marines stopped pawing over Emma and picked up their carbines, pointing them at Shaw.

"Watch your tone Emma."

"Why?" she said. "I do not fear you, Sebastian. You must behave like a king, if you want to be treated like one." She smiled and crossed her legs in a flash of smooth, pale, skin. He heard bolts chambered and safeties clicked off.

"Emma. Do. Not. Do. This."

"Do what?" she said. And as the marines squeezed their triggers, the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of bright flashes and staccato thunderclaps.

The fusillade of steel-jacketed bullets jack-hammered into Shaw's face, neck, and chest, the leather seats, the windows, the door panels. 90 rounds in the span of a few seconds. The noise was a living creature, monstrous in size and murderously rabid, and when the cacophony ceased, the car was filled with even more gray smoke and the stench of cordite.

From all around them came the scream of tortured metal, as the car trembled and shook like the world had opened up beneath them. And when the smoke had cleared, Sebastian Shaw stood in the middle of a busy intersection, jagged chunks of metal clutched tightly in his powerful hands, his clothes torn to shreds, the car cracked in half like an egg, and Emma and her Marines sprawled on the pavement.

Glass coated the ground like sugar beneath his feet, and his massive, hirsute chest heaved with every breath he took, not a drop of blood in sight. He scowled at Emma while traffic screeched to a halt around them, and the more curious onlookers left their cars. She blinked big eyes at him, and as the marines got past the initial shock of having the car torn apart with them inside, they scrambled to reload their weapons. But, Shaw was too fast, and too strong, and with one monstrous backhand blow, he sent all three of them flying across the intersection like small rocks skipped on a pond. He felt their bones snap like twigs under his power. One hit a light pole. One hammered into the side of a U.P.S. flat panel truck. The third bounced on the sidewalk in front of a pair of onlookers.

That roguish smile crept across Emma's face again, and she walked, gracefully, over to where Shaw stood, and knelt in front of him, Versace gown be damned. "My king," she said, and she grabbed his hand and kissed his ring.

Shaw sighed, looked down at her, then up at all the spectators. He felt like a fool. She had goaded him, manipulated him like every other man she'd ever known. And three young men had payed the ultimate price for it. Simply, because she'd wanted to prove a point. She was a true monster. But, she'd also possessed incredible power. And in the end, that was all that mattered. Power, and who possessed it. "Can you make this go away?" he asked. His tone was weary.

"My king need only ask." She looked up at him lovingly.

"Fine," he said. "Do it. And let's go home."