A/N Violence. Language. Review if you have any feedback for me to improve upon. Sorry for the delay but I have a lot of stories to write and I've got a lot of work IRL at the moment (Including mock exams for my GCSE's. Eek!).

Enjoy.

Italic is thought.


Nathan Grey charged, his hulking body armour weighing down on his already muscled frame, his boots pounding and unearthing the scorched ground as he sprinted. A voice yelled through the comms piece in his ear, begging him to stay, not to abandon them.

"I have to," he panted, scrambling under the beam of a sentinel. "If I don't leave now, our race dies today."

"If you leave now, I die no matter what," the woman whispered, as he looked up at his imminent doom. The machine was destroyed however, as his only other friend in this hellhole timeline - Erik Lehnsherr - began to tear it apart, the metal churning and twisting, bolts unscrewing and being flung away.

"I'm sorry, Ororo. Erik. It has to be done." His tears did not form, they never would. Cable never cried. He didn't plead, beg or cower. He fought: always being a soldier, a resistance fighter in a war that never should have occurred.

He would stop it. I have to.

Modern Day

Anna Marie followed the feral Canadian, looping and tearing through alleys and streets, hotly pursued by more sentinels. She had never felt more useless. Everyone else could damage the contraptions, but she could only use her abilities against living, organic, feeling things. But even so, the group could not fight so many at once; or at least, they weren't foolish or confident enough to try.

He stopped, nostrils flaring, his head snapping around in search of something - what? She didn't know. He whipped round and pulled off a manhole cover, pointing down to the sewers. "Let's go, buttercups, step on it," he ordered.

They all had the look of trepidation like they wanted to argue but with no arguments due to no alternatives, they made their way down. Hands grasping a grimy, cold metal bar, feet slipping on the wet and slimy rungs during their descent.

"Oh my god, I need a shower desperately," Dazzler whined, a petite cough echoing down to Anna, who sighed. Urgh, y'all been pampered much?

"Can it," Logan growled, as they all hopped off the ladder and down onto a small pathway in the sewers. Murky water flooded past in a centre channel, with chipped stone and rusty grating acting as interlacing pathways.

Nightcrawler frowned and she followed his gaze to a symbol burnt onto the wall. It was difficult to make it out in the near-blackness, but it looked like a skull, with three eyes.

"What's that?" she asked, her hushed voice easily reaching these strangers in the eery silence.

"Oh, shit," Remy muttered as they glanced at the symbol. "We be needing to haul some mighty ass, right about now."

"What is it?"

"The Morlocks. They'll already know we're here. Best to escape 'fore they get here," he told the rest, his eyes glowing in the shadows.

"They have already arrived," hissed a voice from nearby, cloaked in the darkness, an unseen entity. "Why do you trespass he- Wait . . . you, with the red eyes, can it be? Gambit?"

A woman walked forward, a dirty green tank top clinging to a toned frame. Flame red, spiked hair rested atop a sharp face and daggered chin. Her black eyes narrowed at them.

"Marrow," Remy greeted cautiously, taking a step back. "We didn't mean no harm, jus' tryin' to avoid the death machines."

"Mm-hmm, where have I heard that before? Please Marrow, the humans tried to kill us, let us stay. What happened during your stay, Cajun? Hmm?" she asked, slithering forward and only stopping inches from him when Logan held out a hand. "What is it?"

"Whatever problem you've got with the cajun can wait. We'll be gone in an hour at most, once things upstairs have died down, and you'll never have to worry about it again," he assured her.

"You make it sound like I'm here to discuss the conditions of your stay. You do not seem to contemplate the idea, the fact, that you have broken our rules. Outsiders are not welcome here, as Remy well knows, so, you shall be punished," she explained slowly, drawing out her words as if tasting each syllable on her tongue. "We'll talk soon."

Anna gasped as a whooshing sound led to a few small jabs in her neck, and she fumbled at the points of impact, drawing out the darts as the others were shot. Only Wolverine seemed resistant, his blurred form rushing about her vision, swiping and snarling.

Her eyes closed, welcoming the silky blackness.


Hank McCoy somersaulted, landing roughly next to the sentinel's leg, his fur ruffling as he roared and swiped; tearing away at it's support. It collapsed backwards, crashing down towards a building, from which many humans gathered at the windows, recording the fight with mobile phones. Jean snapped out a hand, visibly straining, her muscles tensing as she focused; using telekinesis to twist it toward the centre of the street and away from anywhere it would cause collateral damage.

If I were a gambling man, I would think my level of violence - though however necessary - will only add sparks to the fire of mutant hatred stirred by Senator Kelly and Bolivar Trask.

She sighed, dropping to a single knee as she breathed deeply. He rushed to her side, placing his large hand on her shoulder softly. "Jean? Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

She needs to stop exerting herself. Her powers are only beta level at best.

"Fine. Just, never held something that large before. I'll be fine, I promise," she whispered. "Where's Scott?"

"I know no knowledge of where he is, but I bear the knowledge of where he will have went," he chimed, unabashed by their predicament.

"Hank?" she growled.

Best not rile her up while Mr. Summers is off playing Action Man.

"The sewers. You said that's where those we followed fled, therefore it will be where he has charged off to. He has an addiction to heroism, one could say," the professor said calmly, backing off as she rose to two feet, shaking her head.

"Unfortunately, that is very true. Although some could argue the same for us," she joked, laughing a little. "Come on, he'll get himself hurt at this rate unless we catch up."

"Agreed." They ran for the sewers through the lashing rain and once they'd removed the manhole, Jean used her telekinesis to fly them down, allowing them to close in on the sounds of conflict.

A mutant came leaping out the water, another skewered in front of him on three, sharp, metallic claws, coated in blood. His ragged black hair was matted over a furious face, snarling as he tore him apart.

Oh wonderful, he looks like quite the pleasant acquaintance.

"Are you quite done?" Hank asked, tilting his head but raising his fists.

The wild man's eyes looked up at the manhole then back at them, his eyes lingering for too long on Jean. "You're with the Cyclops?" he growled.

"Scott? Indeed we are, and I bet he will adore that new pet name," the Beast chuckled. "Where is he?"

"He ran on as they dragged off the others. I take dibs on the next sentry we see. And the redhead - not you, darlin'."

"They? Others?" Jean asked, her eyes closed, focusing on nearby thoughts and minds. She trusted her mind to hear others more than she did her ears. "I see . . . Morlocks and . . . your other friends?"

"Not friends," he snapped in response. "But yeah."

By jove, he is touchy. Lots of deep personal issues and buried psychological trauma no doubt, if he rejects personal attachment so swiftly. He'd be fascinating to evaluate. Later maybe.

"You are quite small for such a feral and aggressive man," Hank observed.

"Bite me furball," the Canadian? retorted. "We're wasting daylight, let's go already. Unless you plan on continuing to yap?"

"I do. But later, when we have less imperative issues at hand. Which way Jean?" he asked calmly, yet again.

"That way," she told him, finally opening her emerald eyes as she pointed west. "You can take the lead," she informed the small man. "Your sense of smell will mean I can focus on telekinesis instead of tracking them."

"How'd ya know I have a keen . . . what does it matter? C'mon," he muttered, leading them further into the labyrinth.


Scott knelt behind the crate, listening to the two thugs on the other side.

"You get the prisoners locked up?" the first asked, a wiry man with a colourful mohawk and an assortment of tattoos. Freak.

"Yeah, though Marrow's requested Gambit be sent to the arena 'stead of the cell. Also, the one with claws hasn't been brought in. He's been causing trouble all over the place, and now he's got two others with him," the man's heavyset partner gruffly replied.

"Who?"

"Some redhead - can't wait 'till we capture her. The things we could do - and some blue . . . beast."

Grr. Asshole. Let's see what he can 'do' with me.

Scott inched sideways, hand at his glasses, ready to rip them off. He waited a few breaths, as they continued their conversation and then spun up, ripping off his ruby sunglasses and letting his solarbeam erupt from his eyes, disintegrating them within moments.

"Do what to her exactly?" he teased the ashes, before moving past and fighting his way down a few more corridors. He soon arrived outside a bulky steel door, latches rusty and moss growing over parts of it.

He singed the hinges off the door before kicking it down, crushing one of the Morlocks, as another dashed towards him. Scott rolled under the man's first fiery punch and backed off a few steps. The man's hands and arms were alight with roaring flames.

Heh, like that'd cause a problem.

He whipped off his glasses and the man was burnt down to a scorched skeleton.

"Ew," a soft voice whispered.

He turned to the prisoners chained to the wall. The one who had made the sound appeared to be one of only two awake. The marks on their necks . . . tranquilised. The woman was in a tight, dancing outfit. He knew her of course, as did most people in the area. Dazzler, the living light show.

Two mutants over, a blue, demonish man was staying eerily silent, his eyes watching the skeleton as his lips made small movements.

"Are, you okay?" Scott asked the man, as he blasted off their chains.

"What?" the demon blearily wondered, his eyes skating up. "Oh, yes. I was just praying."

"For him? No need, that asshole doesn't need forgiveness."

"Not for him," he merely said in a thick German accent.

For me? Why?

"Um, okay . . . what can you both do?" he asked quickly, needing to formulate a plan.

"I can turn sound into light," the woman said.

"I can teleport within line of sight, cling to any surface and perform unnatural feats of agility," the German added.

"Well then, we can return quickly to collect your friends later. For now, we need to focus on the leader of the Morlocks, Marrow, they have . . .Gambit, is it?"

"Indeed. My friend. We must get him back."

"Then let's go," Scott ordered turning to the door, where there stood a feral-looking small man, Hank and Jean.

"Without us, bub? Not a chance," the small man growled. "Let's get going already, time's a wastin'."