Chapter 8
Chile
Hank cradled Jubilee's limp body. Crimson blood gushed from the back of her skull, dying his fur a paisley purple.
Hank rubbed the sweat from his brow. It was like acid in his eyes.
The hammering wails outside the Blackbird weren't helping. Hank's fur stood on edge with every pound on the jet's door. Their attackers had them surrounded, but Hank wasn't going anywhere.
Jubilee needed intensive care. Judging from the lacerations on the back of her head and neck, she needed it ten minutes ago.
If they were in the Mansion… if they were even in a hundred miles radius of the Mansion, Hank would know exactly what to do. He knew precisely where all his supplies were down to the last package of gauze.
That familiarity meant minutes. Precious minutes that could be saved, precious minutes that might add up to the difference between life and death. For this poor girl, his friend, his little buddy, the latter was not an option.
The Blackbird's med bay was almost as familiar to Hank as the Mansion's infirmary, except for one vital difference. The Mansion's infirmary wasn't damaged in the crash. The Blackbird's was.
Beads of sweat rolled in and out of the valleys of fur along Hank's grimaced face.
"Emma, med bay, how are we looking?" Hank asked.
Emma quickly stood up from her kneeling position beside Jubilee. The jet rocked violently side to side as soon as she did. Their pursuers sounded like bulls ramming the side of the jet.
Emma tumbled back to the ground from the jet's sudden shake.
"Enough!" Emma held her fingers to her temples and reverted from diamond form to harness her telepathic energy.
"Stay focused! We don't want to attack until we know exactly what we're up against!" Bishop said.
"I've never been more focused. Anyone hurts my students, they're a vegetable for life," Emma said.
"She's not a child, Frost, and not your student anymore. She's an X-Man," Bishop said sternly.
Emma glared at Bishop momentarily before shutting her eyes again to concentrate.
"Dear, past or otherwise, she'll always be my student," Emma said.
Emma normally seemed so poised and nonchalant when she used her power. She had done such a triumphant job of suppressing her emotions that it was easy to forget the White Queen even had any. But Hank saw in her tightly shut eyes and clenched jaw, Emma Frost was anything but predictable.
Emma angrily snapped from her telepathic trance and slammed her hammer fist onto the floor of the jet.
"It's no use. Whoever these Neanderthals are, they have psychic blocks implanted in their minds. I cannot control them," Emma said.
"We have more pressing issues at hand…" Hank brushed Jubilee's blood sopped hair out of her face, "...perhaps we can reason with our pursuers."
A shuddering plasma rifle blast ripped through the side of the Blackbird. Emma and Bishop ducked while Beast covered Jubilee's prone body with his. The blast landed inches from their heads.
"My word!" Beast yelled.
The scalding heat of the energy blast singed the longest strands of his fur. On top of that, shrapnel from the blast pelted Beast's back like a hail storm of molten iron.
"Plasma rifles!?" Bishop yelled in disbelief.
Five Chilean guerillas crammed into the makeshift doorway on the east wing of the jet. Their blood splattered ponchos and brimmed tan sunhats obfuscated their ages and genders. Hank rubbed debris from his brow and blinked harder.
They could have been anywhere from eighteen to forty, male or female. The only things Hank could clearly make out about these five guerillas were their plasma assault rifles, aimed squarely at Hank and his teammates.
The guerilla in front of the pack fired his gun. The scorching plasma shot exploded an inch from Beast's toenails. He sprang back against the west wall of the jet.
"Man alive! We have a wounded person! She needs medical attention immediately!" Beast yelled.
"Don't take your eyes off the outsiders!" the lead guerrilla said with masculine bass. His body was a dark silhouette of a man behind a gun.
"What are they speaking, Mccoy? I thought Spanish was the national language here," Bishop asked.
"Hmm, judging by the conjugation and verb usage, I would hazard to say I have absolutely no Earthly idea," Hank said.
"Quechuan, dear. It's the only information I could mine from the ones that attacked Warren and Bobby," Emma said.
"Silence!" the lead guerrilla barked and thrust his rifle in Hank's face.
Bishop stepped forward.
"We're here looking for a man named Cortez! Cortez!" Bishop shouted.
The guerrillas stopped like statues. Their leader spat on the floor and pointed his rifle between Jubilee's eyes.
He fired.
Bishop leapt in front of Hank and Jubilee. The plasma energy rammed into Bishop's chest and burned a hole through his X-uniform. Bishop dropped to the floor from the brutal impact. Cinders of flesh and steam rose from his battered chest.
The guerrillas looked on in equal parts horror and amazement at Bishop writhing on the ground.
With a devilish grin, Bishop lifted his head. His wide eyed, purple gaze locked on the lead guerrilla, and Bishop fired all the absorbed energy back at the lead guerrilla two-fold.
The concussive blast slammed into the lead guerrilla's chest and rocketed him out the hole on the side of the Blackbird.
The remaining four guerrillas quickly fanned out and cornered Hank, Emma, and Jubilee. Four rifles aimed at Jubilee.
"Emma, I think I speak for everyone when I say we would all be forever in your debt if you would telepathically teach us all Quechuan," Hank said.
"Henry, dear, what do you think I've been trying to do all this time?" Emma said.
In an instant, Hank's mind flooded with a lifetime of grammar for a language he did not know existed until ninety seconds ago.
"We mean you no trouble, we have an injured person that needs help urgently. Please help us, we are not your enemies!" Hank said his first words of Quechuan.
"We're looking for a man named Fabian Cortez! It's a matter of life and death that we speak to him!" Bishop shouted.
"Please," Hank said.
The four guerrillas paused.
"They lie. They've already lied about not knowing Chechuan," one finally said.
"Spies!" the second said.
"Not spies…Mutants," the third said.
"…We will take them to Tomas," the fourth guerrilla said.
He shoved Emma toward the hole in the jet with his rifle. "Go!"
"In this weather? You most certainly must be joking," Emma scoffed.
The guerrillas cocked their plasma rifles, motioning Emma, Beast, and Bishop to exit the Blackbird into the jungle. Hank carried Jubilee's unconscious body in his arms.
Her pulse was weak but consistent. She needed help. She needed him. But there wasn't a surgery in the world he could perform in a jungle with four plasma rifles on him. Perhaps they could reason with this Tomas.
Henry… Emma telepathically said.
Weak, but stable, thank heavens.
Protect her…
Oh, I was talking about myself. Jubilee's fine.
Lord, Henry.
She just needs-…
One of the guerrillas jammed the nozzle of his rifle into Hank's back to prod him forward.
"Move!" the guerrilla bark.
The guerrillas marched them through the jungle toward a desolate village, never taking their aim off their captives. Thatched, brick houses that might have been their homes once reeked of charcoal and ash. Their roofs had been torched to dust with shadows the size of infants burned into the decayed walls.
"Oh my stars and garters…" Hank mumbled to himself.
"Silence!" the rear guerrilla yelled and bashed the butt of his rifle into Hank's hip.
"Mccoy!" Bishop turned.
The guerrillas quickly focused their aim solely on Jubilee, helpless in Hank's trembling hands.
"Argh…no worries, Bishop," Hank muttered.
Maybe if he could convince Emma and Bishop that Jubilee was going to be alright, maybe Hank would start to believe it himself.
Hank pushed forward at the behest of his ever so gentle captors. With every footstep came the sickening slick pitter of his heels against the muddy trail. It was almost identical to the sound of Creed spitting salivated tobacco into a bucket, or more accurately, the Mansion walls during his brief stay years prior. How he even smuggled snuff in the Mansion was a great unsolved mystery.
The shattered gleam in his wide eyes lingered on the razed, meek little village in this forgotten valley. The twitchy alertness of the guerrillas told Hank everything he needed to know. It was like watching squirrels eat. The guerrillas' eyes constantly shifted back and forth every second in anticipation of danger from any and everywhere. They clutched their weapons like a child would a blanket.
It was no life at all. But it was.
Theirs.
The very same life Hank and his friends fought against for his entire adult life.
Hank wanted to sigh. Maybe even cry. But he did neither. He just kept walking. Marching. To the beat and rhythm of ignorance and paranoia. Marching to orders that he might one day cure that ignorance and paranoia.
From the mutants who attacked the Blackbird, to these guerrillas, and the decimated village, the history here crystallized in Hank's mind.
He knew, here, he was stepping through his own life, his own struggle, in its most primitive, bottleneck fashion. At some point in the past this was probably a quaint, humble village. And then, as it always goes, civil war. Those mutants by the volcanoes and these humans in the valley were at war. Had to be.
War. Death. Destruction. Misery.
All for the same damn reason as it always it.
One was different from the other.
A mosquito pecked Hank's cheek. He scratched the area as best as he could with his shoulder as he carried Jubilee.
If only the X-Men were here earlier. If only they had been able to educate these people. Show them that mutants and humans can coexist peacefully. Hank could see it perfectly in his mind how it had to have happened. It wasn't a coincidence they were looking for Cortez here. That little insufferable madman probably happened upon this innocent hamlet and acted as his namesake.
He probably seized this opportunity for conquest to be king. He probably rallied the mutant population here to be his soldiers and enslave the humans. Knowing Mr. Cortez, he filled their poor little heads with empty promises of power and grandeur. Had to have fed them lies about being a master race and being entitled to rule. That would explain the human guerrillas' vitriolic response when Bishop uttered Cortez's hallowed name.
Still wouldn't explain the plasma rifles. Perhaps Cortez brought them with him and the humans managed to steal them at some point during the war. Only explanation.
The guerrillas saw the X-Men as the enemy, but Hank knew the truth. It wasn't the X-Men or the mutants by the volcanoes. The true enemy was the only thing in the valley the guerrillas couldn't point their guns at.
Ignorance was the enemy. Misinformation was the enemy. Hank knew the power in misinformation and, unfortunately, Hank knew Cortez did as well.
If only the X-Men had gotten here first. They could have gotten these people on the right track by teaching that mutants and humans can indeed peacefully coexist.
Hank blinked, the remorseless oven sun bore down on him like heaven's thumb.
Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Hank was certain Exodus must be smiling right about now.
Hank's stomach knotted. It felt like the knot drew tighter with each step.
It sickened Hank to even consider agreeing with Exodus. He was a delusional sociopath bent on genocide.
Genocide.
The X-Men would never kill…
Hank looked off to the side. The clouds darkened. A light drizzle descended.
…Although they have.
But only in self-defense or when there was absolutely no alternative. Exodus wished to kill just to make things easier. That was the difference, Hank admitted to himself. The thin, but stringent difference between Exodus and the X-Men.
X-Men never took the easy way out. Maybe…Maybe a part of Hank agreed with Exodus' logic. Maybe.
In a lot of cases, Hank knew if the X-Men had just been wherever they needed to be first, before anyone else had the chance to poison the situation with misinformation, then things might be better. Maybe if the X-Men were there first, Mark Ferguson would still be alive.
It was a hell of a lot easier to write history than rewrite history.
"Stop! We wait here," one guerrilla yelled as they approached the entrance to a cave formation.
Three guerillas remained, holding the X-Men at gunpoint while the fourth guerilla slipped inside the cave.
"No argument there, dear," Emma said, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"I was unaware you could work up such a sweat, Frost," Bishop said, his face proudly glistening.
"Oh, I've been known to work up a lot of things, dear," Emma reached over to Bishop and gently removed a bead of sweat off the tip of Bishop's nose with her index finger.
Bishop swatted her finger away. "Including my last nerve."
Emma looked at him cross for a moment as if he had defamed the Mona Lisa, then grinned, "My apologies, next time I'll wear my Shi'ar feathers."
Bishop's face turned to iron.
"You read my mind," he said through his teeth.
"And then there were two for the infirmary," Hank said.
"I didn't read it, just skimmed the cover. And I liked what I saw," Emma said.
"Remember Frost. It's not Shaw or Summers you're talking to. You want power on this team, you earn it," Bishop said.
"Power? Dear, who said anything about power?" Emma said with a smirk. "Are we reading minds now?"
"I just skimmed the cover," Bishop said, looking up and down Emma, "and I never liked what I saw."
Emma's face ignited. "How impossibly rude! Henry! Are you hearing this?"
"Unfortunately," Hank said.
Emma tilted her chin to the sky and pouted her lips, "…Well, Mr. Bishop, I certainly underestimated you…" Emma glanced at Bishop for a second. A half smile crept over her face. "…You are far more fascinating than I ever gave you credit."
Emma was about as urban a person as Hank had ever met. Her waifish build and limp wrists always gave him the impression she would keel over and die at the mere thought of manual labor.
Yet, in many respects, Hank saw her as the ultimate cowboy. She, unlike anyone he had ever encountered, could tame any horse. The wildest of stallions had been deftly domesticated by Ms. Frost.
Her romances with Sebastian Shaw and Cyclops. Her friendships with Logan and even himself. Emma had that uncanny ability to disarm the most violent and guarded men and, be honest, control them.
Something inside her, more than likely a deeply rooted insecurity, drove Emma to always want, nay, need to control those who seemingly would control her. She loved to lead the leaders.
Bishop on the other hand, Bishop was an altogether different cookie. Although he was from the future, he was very much a throwback to a time and culture long gone.
Emma's charm and guile were useless against someone who completely separated his actions from his own personal desires. Bishop was almost entirely selfless, always putting the mission ahead of himself.
Well, almost. Bishop's balled expression when Emma alluded to Deathbird caught Hank by surprise. Hank was there when they connected. He piloted the ship for most of that ill-begotten expedition after all. He watched them bond and, in their own aggressive, insulated ways, romance one another. It was clear Bishop was fond of Deathbird. But…after all this time, for him to have such a visceral reaction to even an insinuation of Deathbird was rather unexpected.
Emma knew what buttons to press. And the challenge to break and control Bishop like a wild steer was a challenge Emma Frost could not resist. If anything, Emma craved it.
In all the time Emma had been his teammate, Hank was unsure if she ever truly desired anyone. She had loved Scott. There was no denying that. Hank could tell from the way her eyes would linger on Scott when he would talk. She adored him, whether she would admit it or not. And a part of her probably always will adore him.
But that love had to be on her terms.
Was that love? True love?
Had Emma ever been vulnerable in love? She was so guarded now. In a past life, she had to have been hurt pretty badly. It would be the only explanation for her lust for control.
There were so many secrets amongst the X-Men. They were a family alright. A family of past lives and hidden truths. Buried in the sands of time.
"Bring them!" a commanding voice bellowed from inside the cave.
The four guerrillas filed Hank and his friends into the torch lit cave. The crackling fire echoed off the cavernous walls as the X-Men pressed deeper into the cave until they reached the guerrilla camp.
The vast cave housed a hundred soldiers strewn about tents and wooden benches. Food seemed in short supply but rifles piled on top of one another on the benches and spilled out of each tent.
A warrior approached the Blue Team, plasma rifle in tow. He was built like a Proudstar, shoulders separated by about a mile and two mountains of muscle. He was the first of the guerillas that Hank could clearly make out their face. A blackened, third degree burn mark tattooed the warrior's left cheek down the side of his neck.
A hush fell over the guerillas as they waited for the warrior to speak. This must be the Tomas they mentioned.
Tomas glowered at Hank. It was like his pupils were shears, trimming away Hank's humanity until he was nothing more than a furry blue, mutant husk.
"Outsiders," Tomas said.
"Please, we mean you no harm, we have an injured person, she needs medical attention immediately! Please, help us!" Hank said.
Tomas lifted an eyebrow.
"Our people settled these volcanoes over five hundred years ago when the Spanish came and took the mainland. They gave our ancestors the choice to convert or move to the barren volcanoes to live undisturbed. We have lived here in isolation since. And now in the past three months, we have been visited twice by outsiders who seem to know our language perfectly. The first outsider to know our ways brought ruin and chaos. Are you here to finish his work?" Tomas said.
"Don't flatter yourself, dear. You're not the only people to speak Chechuan in the world," Emma said.
"I do not suffer insolence well, especially from mutants, mutant," Tomas sneered.
Even here, prejudice was just as strong as everywhere else on this godforsaken planet.
"We have come for the first outsider you mentioned, Cortez, " Bishop said with his authoritative baritone, "He is a criminal, and we are here to arrest him. We have no other business here."
"The outsider has already been arrested. He is my prisoner," Tomas said.
"Tremendous. If you would turn him over to us we will be eternally grateful and will leave your land post haste," Hank said.
"Your command of Chechuan is admirable, mutant, but your comprehension fails. He is my prisoner," Tomas emphasized.
"We respect your position, and in that event, we only wish to speak wi-..." Hank said.
"With you to negotiate the terms of the outsider's release to us," Bishop quickly interrupted Hank.
Beast glanced at Bishop.
"There is no negotiation. Our terms are simple. Santo tells me you knocked out my best warrior with one blast. You are formidable and expendable. My…" Tomas said.
He took a deep breath.
"…Nephew…he is a prisoner of the mutants. He is only a boy. They have already killed the woman I loved… If you are able to return him to me, I will release the outsider to you," Tomas said.
"I demand to speak to the outsider before agreeing to your terms," Bishop said.
"Impossible. You have heard my terms. Take or leave them," Tomas said.
"Lucas, do not be rash…" Hank said to Bishop.
Bishop took a step toward Tomas. The guerillas locked onto Bishop. Lucas did not waver.
"Then you wish to ally only with fools, Tomas. Any true warrior would ensure the prisoner you allege to have is the man we are looking for. You seek formidable warriors to free your nephew? So do not begrudge us for demonstrating the traits you desire," Bishop said.
Tomas looked sternly into Bishop's eagle eyes.
"…Take these two to the prisoner." Tomas said to his men and pointed at Bishop and Emma.
"The girl will convalesce here while the three of you rescue my nephew, Franco. She will serve as added incentive to ensure you complete your mission," Tomas said.
"Wonderful, I can get my supplies from our ship and be back to fix her up in no time," Beast asked.
"That will not be necessary. We shall heal her here. Come, I shall show you our ways," Tomas said.
Hank followed Tomas to the north of the cave while four guerillas steered Bishop and Emma south.
Emma and Bishop navigated through a narrow tunnel to reach a dingy chamber inside the cave.
As soon as we reach Cortez, telepathically scan everything he knows about Exodus. Once they've healed Jubilee, the four of us are done here. We'll find Drake and Archangel and signal the Mansion for extraction. Bishop telepathically said to Emma.
Not one for moral foreplay, are we, Mr. Bishop? Emma telepathically said.
These people's war is none of our concern. We get the information then get our people out. Done. Bishop telepathically said.
I appreciate an X-Man who can be direct. It's certainly overdue. Emma telepathically said.
Each wall was lined with rusty cages containing slabs of flesh and human meat. Broken skeleton remains dangled out of bars of the cages. A few dozen prisoners were still among the living. Starved outlines of human beings were all that was left of them, except for one orange haired inmate in his own private cage who seemed anything but emaciated.
"You're early," Fabian Cortez said.
"Cortez!" Bishop seethed.
Cortez put his hands behind his head and stretched his legs out until they touched the bars of his cage.
Emma strained her face until it shriveled like a prune.
Cortez winked at her. "…Disappointed, Frost? After all, who do you think placed the psychic blocks on these savages?"
"And I take it these are your guns too. How could you have possibly known we were coming? There's no way you could have been expecting us," Emma said.
"Not necessarily expecting. More, anticipating. Idealists are quite predictable," Cortez said.
"We're not here for you. We're here for what you know. I could care less if you rot in this cage until you end up like your pals in the other cages. All I care about is what you know about Exodus," Bishop demanded.
"Now why would you assume I know anything about that man?" Cortez said.
"Because you, more than anyone else, hate him. You fear him," Bishop said.
"And fear breeds a need for understanding," Emma said.
"As well as war," Cortez smirked.
"Exodus plans to kill virtually the entire population in six days unless we stop him. We need to know where to find him and how to stop him!" Bishop snarled.
"Then good luck to you," Cortez said.
Bishop reached between the bars and snatched Cortez by the throat.
"You misunderstand me. I'm not asking. Talk!" Bishop said.
Cortez wheezed and laughed hysterically.
"He knows we need him alive. Threatening him is only a waste of time," Emma said to Bishop.
Cortez gave Bishop a jackal's grin as he released his throat.
"Is this the best your Professor can produce these days?" Cortez laughed.
"What is it you want?" Emma said.
"Ah, where coercion dies, compromise is born. I want what I came here for in the first place," Cortez reclined back against his cage.
"Get to the point, pretty boy," Bishop said.
Cortez rested his chin in his hands.
"For the X-Men to arrange my unconditional release and freedom. As payment, I will gladly share with you my years of research on the weaknesses of one, Bennet du Paris, or Exodus as you know him, in addition to the location of his hidden sanctuary," Cortez said.
"One more time, dear. You said you came here for us to release you?" Emma said.
"Precisely. All part of the game," Cortez said.
"What game?" Bishop said.
"The Upstarts game, of course," Cortez said.
"Upstarts…" Emma said.
She turned to diamond.
"Yes, Shinobi, myself, and Fitz-…" Cortez said.
"Fitzroy!" Bishop snapped.
"Yes, your best friend. Now that we've weeded out the weak links, phase two has begun with the three true contenders. Twelve rounds, each with their own specific objectives and bonuses. At the end of each round, whoever has the most points has their powers magnified by the Gamesmaster, and whoever has the least has their powers reduced. After the final round, whoever has the most points is granted immortality by the Gamesmaster," Cortez said.
"And these innocent Chechuans, I assume, are just pawns to be slaughtered in your game?" Emma said passionately.
"These are warriors. Your Hellions were innocent, Ms. Frost, or did you forget?" Cortez said.
Emma furiously lunged her arm into Cortez's cage and palmed his skull like a basketball. Her diamond nails cut into his scalp like glass.
"Frost!" Bishop grabbed her shoulders, "…Emma! Don't make the same mistake I did and let him get to you."
Emma's entire body convulsed. Her quivering hand slowly released Cortez.
"Imagine just how many points I received for successfully corrupting an entire civilization. These savages had a utopia before I found them. They didn't even know what mutants were. They were animists. Mutants and humans living in perfect harmony. They actually believed mutant powers were gifts no different than high intellect or tallness. They celebrated them as blessings from their pantheon of gods. Pyromancers from the sun god, healing from the spirit of the Earth. They used their powers to fuel this self-sufficient, hermitic society for centuries. And all it took was a little spark and fanning to burn it all to the ground. Isn't it magnificent? You met the humans' leader here, Tomas. He no doubt already tasked you with rescuing his nephew, but did he also tell you the boy's father, Tomas' brother, is a mutant? And that Tomas' nephew is human? That's why he wants him. He wants you X-Men to steal a boy from his father just because his father is a mutant," Cortez said.
He cackled maniacally. It was a shrill, off-putting howl of a laugh.
"And you have to do it, X-Men. You have to if you wish to save the world from Exodus," Cortez said.
