The sun descended quickly down the horizon, warming Scott Summers' back through the ornate windows behind his desk. He wished that he could turn around and enjoy the sensation. He longed to be outside, anywhere but here, in this office, sweaty palms clasped tightly, resting on a desk that he'd inherited from someone he had long considered his surrogate father—a desk that was quickly becoming buried beneath a mountain of paperwork, phone numbers and messages, and generally work that he needed to do. More than anything, though, he wanted to be away from the woman who now sat directly opposite from him, framed by stacks of paper, wiping away crocodile tears with a bone dry tissue.
She was middle-aged, though it was clear by looking at her that she had no desire to consider herself as such. She wore a skirt far too short, her skin unhealthily tanned, and her lips had been recently inflated to an unnatural fullness with collagen. Even through his scarlet-colored sunglasses, Scott could see the slight scars left from the injection.
He stifled a sigh and waited semi-patiently for the woman to finish her latest bout of "mourning."
"Mrs. Zbornak," the man codenamed Cyclops said.
"Ms.," she corrected, dropping her tissue away from her clear eyes for just an instant.
Scott paused, and then continued. "I'm sorry. Ms. Zbornak, the Xavier Institute is as horrified and deeply troubled by the tragic loss of your daughter as you are. Every security precaution was made to keep your child safe during her stay with us. I'm sure the presence of the ONE Squad outside the mansion did not escape your attention…"
"I saw them," Ms. Zbornak replied. "Those mechanical monstrosities are on the wrong side of the fence, if you ask me."
Scott paused once again before speaking, swallowing the anger that threatened to manifest itself in his voice. It was precisely the kind of attitude he'd expected from this woman. Her entire life story and mental profile were contained in the manila folder held tightly beneath his interlaced fingers. Ms. Zbornak and her then-husband had gladly accepted Xavier's offer to 'take their filthy daughter off of their hands,' seeing her ability to absorb nutrients and energy from the soil as a 'nasty habit' and the resulting glow as an 'incessant annoyance.'
"We were very proud of your daughter," Cyclops continued as if he hadn't heard her petty prejudicial comments. "All of the students we lost on that bus were dearly loved by our staff and student-body alike. Rest assured, we share your loss."
Scott dropped his eyes to another folder sitting on his desk. Unknotting his hands, he lifted the thin package from his desk and leaned forward, offering it to her. She accepted, and immediately opened it, her eyes reading and searching frantically.
Cyclops' eyes narrowed behind the opaque lenses of ruby quartz that kept his own mutant ability in check. "As a gesture of our most sincere and heartfelt sorrow, the Xavier Institute is prepared to offer something we've deemed a 'Memorial Gift.'"
He watched the disgustingly orange woman's eyes widen and then narrow as they finally stumbled across what they were looking for. The bottom line. The price of pain. Scott had repeated this gesture far too many times in the two days previous. He'd seen genuine pain and sadness on many parents' faces. There had been some whose faces lit up, embarrassed and overjoyed at the generous offering. Others hadn't even opened the folder, disgusted at the mere prospect of a monetary "gift" to pay for the life of their beloved child.
It saddened Scott deeply, though, that he had seen far, far too many faces mirror the expression Ms. Zbornak now made as her eyes shifted from the paper and bore deeply into Scott's own eyes. The face of greed.
"I will not sign this," she said. "I will not, at this time, put a price on the pain and the loss you have caused me and my family."
Scott sighed, not even bothering to hide his disgust any longer. "Ms. Zbornak, that is a substantial amount of money. I would ask that you reconsider, especially considering the rather lengthy and legally-binding disclaimer you signed upon your child's enrollment at the Xavier's Institute."
"Are you threatening me?" she replied, leaning forward confrontationally. She tossed the folder onto the desk, sending its contents and several other pages flying. Her eyes darted to the name plate sitting in front of him and then stood, jabbing her finger into his face. Scott leaned back, but his expression, a stoic frown, did not change.
"My daughter had just turned normal again, and then you allowed her to be taken from me!" Ms. Zbornak's face darkened in tone as her anger peaked. "You will be hearing from my lawyers! When I'm done, I'll own this place!"
He stood slowly and gathered the pages and stuffed them back into the folder. "You understand, I hope, that this was a one-time offer. I repeat my condolences." He pulled a card from a stack that was shorter by more than half than it had been two days ago. "Here is the number for our team of lawyers. They'll have the details on the case and how you and your lawyer can be included."
As if on cue, the door suddenly opened and the beautiful, blond-haired Emma Frost stepped in, wearing her traditional white despite the occasion, though her clothing was uncharacteristically modest… For Emma, anyway. Her head was tilted back just slightly, so that she looked down her nose at the startled Ms. Zbornak. Her distaste for the woman was almost tangible.
Scott couldn't say he blamed Emma for her feelings, but he also found her telepathic eavesdropping increasingly annoying. With Emma around, there definitely weren't any private meetings being conducted at the Institute.
"Good day, Ms. Zbornak," Scott said.
"I trust you remember your way out," Emma added. "And yes, we would notice if the lamp in the sitting room went missing."
"W- well, I never!" Ms. Zbornak replied, clutching the card to her chest. "Do you mean to imply…?" She turned and glared at Cyclops. "You might think about teaching your staff some manners, Mr. Summers," she shouted. "This isn't the last you've heard of me!"
She turned and stormed from the desk, sneering down at Emma's large, partially exposed breasts. "Hussy!" she hissed.
"Oh, please," Emma replied, crossing her arms and sending her own snooty stare as the older woman pushed past her and headed down the hall. "Believe me, that college drop-out you're 'seeing' three times a week behind his mother's back does not make you any younger or more valid as a woman."
There was a noise that Scott could only describe as a high-pitched roar and then the quick clacking of high-heeled shoes racing down the hallway.
"Was that really necessary?" Scott asked.
Emma was silent for a moment, her eyes watching something Scott couldn't see, until her face turned into a slight snarl. "That bitch did take that lamp," she said.
"Let her have it," Scott said, sitting back down into his leather chair. "It's the only thing she'll be getting."
"But I liked that lamp," she pouted.
Scott bent his head, hiding the grin that crept to his lips. "Was that the end of them?"
"Sadly, no," Emma replied, shifting her weight and jutting one toned hip to the side. "But I've sent the rest of them home. I'm afraid something has come up."
Scott raised his eyes from the desk. "What?" he said, confusion evident in his voice. "What's happened?"
Another blond marched into the room, though this one was much more conservatively dressed in a navy suit jacket and skirt. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a painful-looking ponytail, and her face seemed to be frozen in a perpetual frown.
"Dr. Cooper," Scott said, his voice neutral. 'How can I h--?"
"Let's cut the crap, Summers," Valerie Cooper said as she walked briskly to the side of his desk, where she placed both hands and leaned towards him. "We've got one hell of a bad situation and the longer we sit on this, the worse it's going to get."
"There's been what appears to be an assassination attempt on the Symkarian Ambassador to the United Nations exactly forty-five minutes ago at the airport where his private jet had landed. We've got property damage and witnesses out the wazoo, and we need this cleaned up, and I mean yesterday."
"I'm sorry," Scott said, frowning. "Maybe I'm missing something. How does this involve the X-Men?"
"Oh, you're involved, all right," Valerie responded with a mirthless chuckle. "Because the assassin is one of yours."
Oh, no, Scott thought. Not Logan. Not again. His hands tightened on the desk until his knuckles were bright white. "Who?" he said, his voice low.
"It's Bishop," Emma said.
---
Found you, Matt thought to himself. His nostrils flared once again, confirming what he already knew to be true. He'd "spotted" the Black Widow, three buildings over. There was nobody else on earth that smelled like she did. It was rare that the man known as Daredevil encountered a scent he couldn't identify and break up into all of its individual components. True, there were aspects of Natasha's unique odor that were familiar. Her expensive shampoo, the perfume sold only in countries he wasn't sure he could pronounce properly, and the strange rubber/leather/Kevlar mix that signified her specially designed costume. But with Natasha, there was always something else… He imagined it was probably natural. The combination of a strict but fascinating diet and her own body chemistry, boosted by untold medical means and a metabolism fired by endless exercise.
At any rate, he told himself as he pulled his uniquely designed billy club from its pouch on his leg and ran for the edge of the roof he was standing on, there's no denying that's her.
The air whistled around him as he dove from the parapet. He tilted his head, allowing the sounds around him to fuel his "radar sense," allowing the mental picture of his surroundings to grow and fill with details. With a flick of his wrist, one end of his billy club shot through the air, carrying a powerful cable, and twisted lazily around a protuberance on the building's façade. The cord tightened as Matt's weight pulled the on it, and the club fastened itself securely.
Matt tensed his arm, absorbing the pull of his own body weight, and swung through the alley. He grabbed his end of the club with both hands and extended his legs before him, twisting his body as the wind told him to keep from colliding into the side of the building. Finally, as he was reaching the upward-most arc of his swing, he pulled his legs back and then threw them forward. At the same time, he flipped his wrist, allowing a moment's slack on the cord and allowing the club to fall from its perch on the building.
He tucked his legs close to his chest, tumbling through the air. At the last second, he opened, landing on powerful legs atop the next building. He paused for a moment, absorbing the extra inertia, and then, using what was left, shot forward into another run.
With another flying leap, he landed with a soft grunt onto a low office complex. His thumb slid to a small button on his club and the cord quickly disappeared inside the thin weapon.
"You're late," Natasha said, stepping out from behind a large heating/cooling unit, exactly where he knew she was.
As she spoke, Matt felt the sun finally disappear behind the horizon. His skin prickled at the sensation as the temperature dropped suddenly. He wondered idly if Natasha could even feel the difference. "No I'm not," he said matter-of-factly. "Have you seen anything?"
"Nothing," she replied. "Of course, I haven't just been sitting and waiting around for you all day. Do you know the last time I had an afternoon in New York City with nothing stopping me from spending my retirement on clothes that I will never get a chance to wear?"
Matt heard her footsteps and "watched" as she strolled to the building's edge and leaned over carelessly.
"I found a pair of truly lethal heels," she said, her voice bored. "Red. You'd like them."
"My favorite," Matt replied, stepping closer to the edge himself. "Look, Nat…" he started, but a man's shriek of terror and pain stopped him mid-word. He turned his head, trying to zone out the traffic below and innumerable sounds of the city to pinpoint where the attack was going down.
"What is it?" Black Widow whispered. Even with her voice lowered, at this level of concentration her voice boomed inside his skull. Matt raised his finger, silencing her.
C'mon, he thought, tell me where you are. Make some noise.
There was another scream and a sickening gurgling sound, but it was faint. Whatever was going on, it was far away. Without a word, Daredevil leapt into the air, swinging through the air, trying his best to stay focused on the direction of the noise, to pinpoint its exact location.
We're not going to make it, he thought. Have to hurry. Can't be late. Concentrate. Focus.
Matt peeled back layer after layer of sound, at the same time trying to navigate through the streets of the city without falling to his death. There were a few more sounds of struggle, and he thought he heard some hurried footsteps. At this distance, he just couldn't be sure. He tried to hold onto them. He ground his teeth in a snarl, straining his senses to their limit. A semi truck below blew its horn, tires screeched, and metal smashed into metal. The world seemed to shake around Matt as disorientation wracked him. His hand nearly slipped from his club.
Adrenaline-fueled panic raced through his veins, guiding him to the ground. His feet hit concrete harder than he would have liked, but he thanked God that he'd actually survived.
After a few seconds, blood pumping in his ears and chest heaving, Natasha landed next to him. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"I lost them," Matt replied, speaking between breaths. "The attackers. Five blocks east, an attack. At least two dead."
A soft click signaled the launch of Natasha's own grappling cord and she disappeared, knowing better than to wait on Matt.
When the ringing finally stopped in his ears, Matt pulled himself together and followed her through the air. The closer he got, the angrier he got with himself, especially as he turned, falling onto the sidewalk just a few feet from the incident. The smells hit him like a wall: blood, bile, and everything else that signaled the arrival of death.
Natasha was already there, her warmth bent over the rapidly cooling corpses.
"They're all dead," she said.
Matt stepped over to the brick wall behind them, and his fist rapped as he pounded it against the hard surface in frustration. He heard the powerful tendons and muscles in Natasha's legs tighten as her knees straightened. "Three of them. They look like skinheads. Not exactly the type of people you should beat yourself up over."
"Skinheads?" Matt asked aloud, though the question was more for himself. There were gangs, of course, of every kind in New York and especially in Hell's Kitchen, but skinheads? "Tattoos?" he asked.
"Yeah. Swastikas. A couple of poorly-drawn Hitlers," Natasha said, craning her head to interpret the black ink imbedded in the victims' twisted bodies. "And they all have the Sapien League emblem."
Sapien League, Murdock thought. Mutant haters. "Probably a rival gang," Daredevil said. "But this doesn't seem like the Russians. This seems like a… an animal attack."
"I agree," Natasha replied, obviously every bit as puzzled as Matt.
He stepped away from the wall, crossing his arms. "Well, it's the Russians we're after…" As he spoke, a very familiar scent caught in his nostrils, floating up from his gloved hand. Blood. It was all over the place, but he hadn't touched anything but the wall, and even this blood-bath shouldn't have carried that far.
"Widow," he said. "The wall. What do you see?"
Her boots scraped the concrete as she moved closer. "It's blood," she said, her face very close to the brick. "It's really hard to see, but I think it might say something."
"I have excellent night-vision," she said, still moving back and forth in front of the message that the attackers had left them. "And I can't make it out on this wall. Whoever wrote it must have had a light." Her head turned toward Matt. "You don't happen to have a flashlight on you, do you?"
Matt didn't respond.
"Didn't think so," Widow said stepping away from the bricks. "It's too small and too dark. We'll have to come back."
"The police might be here by then." Daredevil stepped forward, removing his glove. This was going to be tough, and he had to hurry if it was going to work at all. "Lead me," he said. "Where does it start?"
Natasha's smooth bare skin touched Matt's wrist. Gently, she directed his outstretched palm to the appropriate coordinates. "Here," she said. "The writing begins and stretches approximately a meter. I think there might be two rows of writing, but I'm not sure."
Slowly, carefully, Matt pulled his hand across the wall, keeping his palm mere centimeters from the ragged brick. His jaw was set and his unseeing eyes were closed tightly. His mind's eye struggled to "see" the words, formed with the quickly evaporating heat from the life's blood scrawled so carelessly on the wall. In all of his experiences, messages left in blood were either a warning or a red herring. Either way, they were always windows into the attacker's mind, whether he knew it or not.
F—F-a. The process was slow and inexact. It took all of Matt's concentration to make out the letters. Remembering them wasn't hard. It was just like Braille. Even with his attention focused, the blaring of sirens approaching did not escape his notice.
"Matthew," Natasha said, turning away from the wall. "I believe we are about to have company."
Of course, Matt thought to himself. Any other day, the police in Hell's Kitchen scatter from a crime like roaches from light. Just my luck that today is the day they decide to go to work.
"Faith must be enforced by reason," Matt said, putting together the first line of writing. He hurriedly moved his hand back to the start of the next line. He heard Natasha mouth the words to herself, her quick mind undoubtedly trying to place the meaning and significance of the statement.
"When Faith becomes Blind…" Matt continued. The writing seemed to suddenly change completely, becoming large and messy. The thickness of the blood made it easy to read. "… It dies."
---
"This doesn't make any sense," Scott Summers said, his voice shaken by his quick pace as he and Dr. Valerie Cooper rushed down a brightly-lit hallway. "Why would Bishop want to attack the Symkarian ambassador? Has Bishop ever even been to Symkaria? Are we sure it's really him?"
"For the third time, Mr. Summers, yes, we're sure it's him (as sure as one can be these days), and, as I believe I mentioned, we were hoping you might be able to shed some light on his history," she said. She was clearly agitated and her high-heeled shoes sounded loudly on the tiled floor.
Scott didn't look at her as she spoke. The last half-hour he'd spent with her in the limo to this secure location had only served to remind him of how much he disliked this woman.
"Our files," she said. "Seem to be woefully empty for Lucas Bishop, the man you claim comes from a future that, in all likelihood, will never come about."
"And I've told you," Scott fired back. "I would tell you if I knew. Bishop isn't exactly the kind of man who waxes nostalgic about his past."
"He also didn't seem like the kind of man who would blow up a plane full of innocent people," Valerie said. "I guess Mr. Bishop is positively ripe with surprises."
At this last comment, Scott did turn his head. There was more in her voice than mere annoyance or indignity. She seemed almost personally affected by Bishop's actions. He'd heard rumors around the mansion, through Emma of course, that Bishop and Valerie were spending a lot of time together. Honestly, he hadn't thought anything about it. Suddenly, the idea didn't seem so unbelievable.
"Bishop is not the kind of man who would attack innocent men," Scott said. Valerie stopped suddenly as she reached a door clearly identified as the "Interrogation Room." She entered a seemingly endless amount of characters into the electronic doorpad and then touched her thumb to a red scanner. Finally, the door clanged as locks disengaged, and Dr. Cooper turned the handle and opened the door.
"If Bishop was involved," Scott continued as he stepped through the entrance. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."
There, sitting behind a field of energy, was Lucas Bishop. There was no mistaking his dark, Aboriginal skin, the serious demeanor on his face, and the large "M" tattooed over his eye. His hands were locked in a huge contraption Scott guessed was designed to keep his powers negated. From the bruises and glazed look in his eyes, Scott also guessed that his teammate had been beaten and drugged.
The Interrogation Room was not empty, however. A woman shorter than Scott with hair as white as Magneto's was leaning in the corner, her arms crossed on her chest, and a stare as cold as the windiest arctic night. It was all Scott could do to keep himself from shivering.
"If there is a logical explanation," the white-haired woman said in a thick European accent that Scott couldn't quite place. "I would be all too pleased to hear it."
"Scott Summers, I would like you to meet the Symkarian Ambassador's personal bodyguard," Valerie said, extending her hand to the attractive woman in the silver bodysuit. "Miss Silver Sablinova."
The woman rolled her eyes. Scott guessed Valerie had mispronounced her name. She pushed from the wall and stepped forward, though nothing like a greeting was offered. "Call me Silver Sable," she said.