Colossus dimly heard his friend shout after him as he dove off, and wished he'd had time to explain his plan. Well, to be honest, "plan" was a bit of a stretch; he'd suddenly had a gut feeling that he could accomplish more off the beast than on, and went with it. Even as the massive head had moved so quickly to intercept him, and those stalactite-sized teeth flashed and closed down on him, he still felt he'd made the right decision. While he had the vague idea about attacking the creature's softer underbelly when he'd leaped, he saw an opportunity here as well, provided that he had the strength - or his armor the durability - to withstand it trying to bite him in half.
As it was, he was able to twist his body as the dragon bit down, causing the incisors to scrape down his back, leaving a significant gouge. He winced in pain, and grabbed hold of the fang, huddling between two teeth twice as tall as him. He paused to orient himself to these circumstances, and was lifted bodily as the monstrous tongue sought to dislodge him from his hiding place. His grip held as he punctured handholds through the enamel of the tooth, and the tongue flickered back at him. He dodged this time, getting to the other side as it dug in the gap he'd occupied a moment before.
He looked towards the throat - there was no of knowing if he could survive the digestive system of something that could incinerate matter with its breath, but the risk of staying in the mouth was as great, if not much worse. With a grace and agility that belied his seven and a half foot metal frame, he did a dive roll onto the serpentine tongue, using it as a springboard to launch himself down its esophagus.
"Down the hatch," he muttered to himself, glad that Nightcrawler would not have to hear, and thus feel compelled to comment on, his bad joke.
Kurt watched him disappear helplessly, having no strength left to teleport. He clung to the neck spine, his chest heaving from his earlier exertion. He watched the dragon bite down on Peter's armored form, and then stop. It cocked its head slightly to the left and began to open and close its mouth, the tongue slithering in and out rapidly.
He scrambled his way up the sinuous neck, drawing his two blades as he went. His acrobat's body gave him astounding recuperative prowess, and he was going to push it to the limit if there were any chance to save his Russian compatriot. "Seek out a weak spot," Colossus had said. And given that those scales were quite impervious to his swords, he could think of only one object they might be able to damage. Make that two.
The dragon was making a slightly strangled growl, as if it had something – or someone – in its throat. Kurt took this as a good sign – perhaps that insane leap hadn't been as suicidal as he'd thought. Good thing, too, for if Peter was going to kill himself again… well, he didn't have time to explore those feelings right now. With a leap into a front somersault, he reached the crown of the dragon, right next to the left side horn.
The dragon stood still for a moment, its nostrils flaring as it seemed like it was trying to track him by scent. He marveled that such a massive beast might be able to be able to pick out his own individual odor; it must be like Wolverine smelling a single ant.
He slipped down between the eyebrow ridges, skidding a bit along the snout. His legs bunched, muscles tensing for that moment.
Two huge orbs, easily ten feet in diameter, focused in on Nightcrawler, and with that, he sprang forward, stabbing forward with both blades. He felt them sink into the cornea and lens, and even as the creature began its scream of anger and pain, he initiated his mutation, appearing in front of the other eye. Again he lunged, and again his swords pushed in with grim determination to blind the monster.
Kurt did a long, graceful back flip down towards the creature's nostrils and then teleported, releasing his normal cloud of sulfur and brimstone that he hoped would confuse the dragon's sense of smell. He reappeared between those massive wings and hid along the dorsal spines. While his idea had worked up to a point, but there was only so much damage a three-foot long sword could do to such a humongous eyeball. Even now, the thing was growling and hissing, its head flopping back and forth and its multiple eyelids blinking rapidly. He couldn't even be sure just how much he'd managed to impair its sight. What was more, it could still hear and smell, and it still had that devastating fire. If Peter were still alive inside it, Kurt thought, even his osmium-analog armor most likely could not survive such an attack, unless he could get below whatever gland or organ created those fiery bursts.
He took a moment to clean his blades of the ichor from his attack. Again, the temptation to draw the Soulsword rose in him - it was anathema to all things magickal, wouldn't it be their one weapon that might be able to damage this thing? His right hand rose involuntarily to his chest, his fingers reaching towards his heart.
He froze, realization dawning on his face - could that be Belasco's game? Could he really be after Illyana's mystical blade? During their first sojourn to Limbo, the sword hadn't existed at all; it had allegedly been created later from the very soul energy of Peter's sister. But the evil sorceror Gravemoss, who sought it when it had fallen into Kitty Pryde's possession, and his nemesis Shrill – they had scoffed at that, saying that it was a legendary weapon. And once, when visiting Amanda when she was still ruling here, she had mentioned how she'd seen a vision of the Soulsword when she was very young, and had reached for it, only to have it snatched away. She found it ironic that she later came to possess both it, and the realm it came to exemplify.
These were thoughts to be pursued later – right now, he had a dragon to slay. And, he decided, it would have to be without the enchanted sword inside him.
Amanda was rudely stirred back to consciousness as her jaw was being pried open and water - real, clear, wonderful water - poured down her throat. Her eyes, having long ago become accustomed to the darkness of her cell, made out Dani's outline. A million questions and concerns floated through her brain, but when she tried to give them voice, she descended into another coughing fit.
When she regained some composure, she said simply, "Thank you."
"You looked a little parched. I have bread as well, and some dried vegetables."
"Where-?"
Dani replied, "I really can't say. I promised not too. Now take your hands out of those shackles - they're still neutralized. I don't plan on hand-feeding you as well."
"But," objected Amanda weakly, even as she complied, "How do you know -? Belasco or his agents could have - you just can't trust - this is Limbo..." She struggled with pulling coherence from the jumbled images in her mind.
"Amanda, we don't trust one another, and for good reason. My team has already been deceived by your evil twin, and the hell you've been put through isn't going to make you very likely to accept a sudden turn of good fortune with anything but suspicion. But you keep drinking this water because you don't have a choice - the alternative is death." The young woman continued, "I've got the same issue - there's things I need to take on faith - up to a point, that is - because otherwise I would just have to lie down and wait to rot. And right now, our distrust is a good thing - this is Limbo, and trusting blindly will get us killed or worse very quickly. But if I know the rest of the team, if they're still free, then things are going to come to a head very soon..."
"What-," Amanda said, as she greedily grabbed another piece of soft, dark bread and shoved it in her mouth. Between gulps, she paused and said, "I know. The trust thing. It's better you don't tell me, for now."
"Yes. But once things are happening, it serves Belasco's design that we don't trust one another. We're going to have to get over this by then, or we will fail. And that can't be an option, not with so much at stake."
"It's hard," the gypsy sorceress said.
"Tell me about it," Dani responded, a weariness to her voice, "I've had enough enemies hiding behind the faces of my friends. And I'm sick of being used. But it doesn't change what has to be done. Are you with me?"
"Yes. By all that I hold holy, when the time comes, I will stand with you, or die in the attempt." The blonde held out her hand.
Danielle Moonstar, who was closer to the edge of despair than she'd ever dare admit, grasped the offered arm as a lifeline, "And, by my ancestors and the Great Spirit, I promise I will be by your side.""
Amanda laughed softly, and at Dani's quizzical look, explained, "You don't think it's funny - that we just agreed that we don't trust one another right now, but will in the future?"
The Cheyenne warrior looked at her, mouth agape, and then, helplessly, joined in the laughter.
Peter had gotten himself caught in the dragon's epiglottis, causing the beast to choke momentarily, but then the spongy flap had opened and he'd continued his descent. He might have preferred heading towards the lungs with it's hurricane force winds than the uncertainty of whatever stomach acids he was headed for, but his most pressing concern was getting below whatever biochemical process created that blistering fire. He wished he'd paid more attention when Kitty had been blithering about one of her fantasy novels that she read, where she talked about how the author had spent quite a bit of time on illustrating how a dragon might actually work in real life. But he hadn't, being more interested in her presence and the comforting sound of her voice than he was in the minutiae of the story. He grinned in spite of himself, making a silent promise that he'd be more attentive in the future. You never knew when such things might come in handy, especially in their line of work.
As he'd fallen down the throat, he'd been buffeted back and forth as the monster moved in response to some external stimuli, most likely his friend and teammate. What should have been a trip of a few seconds was lengthened significantly, as the metallic X-man had been tossed every which way by the frantic motion.
He was heading right for a large valve- the esophageal sphincter, he remembered from his anatomy classes at Xavier's . Two others flanked it - if he had to guess that somehow they were connected to its pyrogenesis, which might be caused by the expulsion of multiple gasses that would burst into that unholy flame in contact with open air.
Just a little farther, and he would be safe. From one threat, anyway.
- - -
The Great Wyrm was still bleating in pain, and had made a couple attempts at biting Nightcrawler off his perch amongst those vertical ridges, causing the blue-furred hero to hunker down and reflect on Peter's earlier allusion to fleas. He began to see why dogs had so much difficulty with such pests. He was at a bit of a loss on how to proceed - he didn't think it would try to blast him where he was, as it would then potentially endanger itself, but he was still struggling to come up with any sort of plan that might damage the beast and free Peter. What was more, the box holding the dimensional bomb was hooked to his pack rather precariously. Were he to lose it - or if were it to be set off prematurely - all would have been for naught, and their lives would become a nightmare situation of fighting demons every moment of every day until they finally succumbed to the overwhelming numbers. Or, he thought morosely, until they were corrupted by the overpowering evil that permeated this dimension.
His face grew bleak. Death first, he promised himself. He would sooner fall on his blade, mortal sin though it be, than become that perversion of himself. He wondered how the Savior would treat such a choice - for even as there was prohibition against suicide, did it not also say in the book of Mark that if it was your eye that offended you, then to pluck it out? What if it were your soul - or your very being - that became the instrument of evil?
There was a great disturbance along the dragon's body as the humongous wings spread impossibly wide, and the mighty sinews along its back began to bunch and flex. It started to flap, and although the very idea of it was an offense against reason and aerodynamics, the monster took to the air. Kurt felt his fingers slip, and in desperation reached for another handhold, grasping at the iridescent scales that covered its entire body. Almost immediately, he had to pull his hand back with a yelp of pain, red streaks already forming in the creases of the fingers of his right hand. His grip lost, he began to fall, and only a panicked teleport back up to the beast saved him, as he somehow matched his destination to the rapidly rising target. His undamaged left hand stabbed out to grab the more rounded back ridge and he held on with his fingertips.
He reached up with his left foot to reinforce his grip, and, wincing against the pain, he reached into his pack to grasped a nanofiber cord. He looped the cord around the sail-like ridge, knotting it and then locking his arm inside. The dragon seemed to have forgotten about him for the time being, so he rummaged about for his medkit to dress the wounds on his hand.
Looking up, he saw that they were approaching a mountain range, and atop the highest peak, the ominous shape of Belasco's citadel. Good fortune, it would appear, but Nightcrawler instinctively mistrusted such a turn in his favor. And there still Colossus to worry about, if he was even alive inside the creature.
It was coming in for a landing, but where, he couldn't say. It was nearly as large as the castle. He looked around for a safe landing zone for himself. One more 'port, he promised himself, and then he could rest.
Marvel Girl floated in that numbing void for a seeming enternity. The sense of timelessness was oppressive, recalling but at the same time contrasting with that period she had spent lost in the temporal stream. She'd survived that, just as she would survive this. She reflected at how much she'd missed in the time it did take her to return, and feared that she might not get back in time to help. What good would it be to return to yet another world where everyone she cared about were dead or twisted? She'd drawn parallels in her mind between what the perverted facsimile of Kurt had undergone at the hands of Belasco to the torment and forced indoctrination she'd suffered under Ahab. She'd broken free, eventually. But how much worse - how much more complete the transformation to evil - could be accomplished through this black magic?
She bit her lip. She wouldn't let him get her like that. And she would get out.
She felt the rage building in her, and again silently cursed the surrounding grayness that offered nothing on which to vent. Powerless, alone, with no outlet to her anger, she felt her eyes grow heavy with tears.
No, she thought, fiercely. I will not succumb to this! She reached again to her power - her telekinesis and telepathy - and tried desperately to use them. They were still there, she could feel the power inside. But something was preventing her from using it to escape her prison. She reached up and raked her red hair with her fingernails, forcing it back to a semblance of order, when it dawned on her that it had moved on its own - there was no wind here, no gravity. No sense of movement whatsoever. And yet strands of her hair had gone all askew, just as they did when she went all Phoenix-y. She tried a tentative psychic tug, concentrating on her bangs, and they raised reluctantly. She could "feel" them, but only barely, as if her psychokinetic arm had fallen asleep.
Sneaky, she thought, very sneaky. Somehow the environment was immune to her psionics - the drab nothingness around her was exactly that - nothing. But she could still affect herself, although even that was limited. It reminded her of the morning she'd found Kitty phased part way through the floor and tried to lift her. There was the same, tenuous grip to everything. Bearing down to the molecular level, she realized that the very atoms of this realm were out of synch.
As she became more certain of the nature of her prison, she began to concentrate on what might then get her out of it.
Rachel!
She spun her head around. She wasn't alone.
Are you there?
"Who's there? I can barely hear you!"
There you are! I thought I'd never find you in this place.
"Illyana! You are alive!" A twinge of jealousy shot through her. She was glad that their trip hadn't been in vain, but Illyana – alive – could only mean that she'd have an even smaller part in Kitty's life. She chided herself for the stupidity of the thought.
Gee, Ray, it's good to see you too. Listen, I don't have much time – you're only vaguely in my Limbo right now, so this is taking a lot out of me.
Rachel listened carefully as the disembodied voice explained her plan. "Got it," she nodded. "Listen, Illyana, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have these negative feelings about you, or your brother. It's just…"
Trust me, I know what it's like, to feel you don't have anyone to lean on. And believe me when I say I won't be stealing Kitty away from you. She loves you, Rachel. Maybe not the same way she loves that big goof I call a brother, but she loves you all the same. I won't be leaving this place, so I need you to get out and take care of her for me, and give her the kick in the ass when she needs it.
The words touched her, as did the Russian girl's courage and heart. "I will, Illyana. And, thank you."
Don't thank me yet. Wait 'til we're all free… one way or another.
Peter was working on the valve to the stomach when suddenly the world went topsy-turvy and he was thrown forward. He scrambled to his feet, maintaining a low crouch to preserve his balance. They were airborne, he noted, and he wondered why. He worried about Kurt - had the creature killed him? The monster had not eaten him, that was certain, as he would have seen... something... come down the esophagus. And it hadn't used its fire on him - he definitely would have noticed that. Or, more accurately, that he was still around was a solid indication that there'd been nothing to notice, if only for a microsecond. But the creature could have speared his friend with a claw, or whipped him with its tail, or stepped on him with Godzilla-sized feet - all would have been fatal.
The dragon seemed to be leveling off, so he resumed his attempts at opening the valve and escaping into the belly of the beast, as it were. His struggle to accomplish this simple feat bothered him; as strong as he was, and with his armored form's generally disruptive impact on magic, he should have had little trouble opening a hole large enough to slip through. He hadn't used the full measure of his strength yet, for fear that such an assault would trigger some sort of reflex, perhaps involving that infernal, incinerating breath. Instead, he had tried subtle but persistent pressure, thinking he might instead initiate a normal peristalic response.
He lost his balance again as the creature began its descent, but managed to steady himself. He wondered if it was folly to attempt to navigate the creature's digestive system. Even if he managed to burst its stomach or other organ, it might take far too long to kill the thing. He looked up the esophagus, analyzing his chances at climbing all the way up, and perhaps ascending through the sinus cavities to the brain.
- - -
Kurt looked along the spires of the citadel for a place to escape his current predicament. They were nearly down, and it looked like it was just going to land on the nearest peak to Belasco's mountaintop residence. He was running out of time, he'd rested as much as he'd dared. With the soft bamf of imploding air, he vanished from his perch.
He reappeared on a parapet nearly a half-mile away and collapsed immediately to his hands and knees.
The dragon reacted immediately, its giant head thrashing about at the sound of that telltale bamfing sound, trying to zone in on where the person who had wounded it might have gone. It sniffed at the air, and cocked its head for any clue of his whereabouts. Finally, it roared in frustration.
From his vantage point, Kurt had an excellent view of the Wyrm's anguish at his escape. He watched, relieved and somewhat amused at its antics, until its chest began to swell. His laughter died on his lips, to be replaced by an expression of shock and horror as the beast unleashed its most furious blast yet, high into the sky, a blinding conflagration that seemed to dwarf the sun in its immensity.
If Peter was inside that…
- - -
Peter pushed and tugged, prodded and levered. The dragon's screams had resounded throughout its body, and he took it as a good sign that his comrade was still alive, and had possibly escaped. He felt the monstrous lungs swell around him, and redoubled his efforts. He had one last chance at this, and used his full strength, fueled even more by the osmium-steel equivalent of adrenaline.
Finally, he forced a small opening – just a couple feet wide. He dove through.
And the world turned white.
- - -
Kurt's shock was short-lived, and he reacted at the dragon's flame with a mixture of fury and determination. If Peter had been in the path - no time to think of that now, he had to move, in case his friend was still alive in there. His eyes fell on a tall spire, perhaps fifty feet high, twenty feet in diameter. He didn't even consider the consequences to his already over-taxed body, 'porting over to the spire and with inhuman effort, moving it through that parallel dimension his power allowed him access to, across the distance and materializing it inside the creature at the base of its skull, right by the spine. The rock of the spire merged with the bone and nerves, destroying both.
With the last ounce of endurance, he teleported back to the Citadel, watching the beast shudder and convulse. Its momentum carried it towards the castle, and it crashed heavily, smashing through the walls and leaving huge piles of debris and nearly destroying an entire wing in its wake.
"Did it..." he gasped, his heart pounding fit to burst and his lungs straining to pull in air. Bemused, he watched black dots swirl before his yellow eyes, growing larger and larger and spinning faster and faster even as his heart began to skip wildly, arrythmically. His chest ached, and he began to cough painfully. Suddenly nerveless fingers moved to his mouth, and came back spotted with blood. It barely registered on him what was happening when it was over, and he collapsed, unmoving.
"An interesting strategem by the goblin," smiled Belasco over his crystal, surveying the scene. "One, I dare say, might even have been effective against me, had I been caught unawares."
"I know I wouldn't wanna get fused with a ton'a rock," replied T'ym. "It'd jus' ruin my girlish figger." He barked out a laugh.
"Fear not, my churlish thrall. I know his ways now, and can thwart them easily. Come, we have much preparation to do. Boy!" the sorcerer shouted, "Attend me!"
Doug stepped forward quickly, his bow low. "Yes, m'lord?"
He waved his hand over the image in the crystal. The picture wavered, and the Wyrm's corpse vanished, as did the apparent damage it had done to the citadel, leaving only thr prostrate body of Nightcrawler splayed on the ground. "Go outside and fetch Wagner. Place him in the Stasis of Szoglosch, but otherwise keep him undisturbed."
"And the Russian?" Doug asked, his eyes expressionless.
With a mocking laugh, his Master answered, "The fate of Rasputin is my concern, and mine alone."
Belasco turned towards an ornate marble table, where a second sphere had appeared next to the one that held Marvel Girl, a translucent opal that contrasted with the obsidian of the first globe. He scooped it up with his left hand and held it aloft, gazing inside. It pulsed softly, the white light reflecting strangely off his reddish skin. The fingers of his free hand danced, tracing an intricate design in the air around the sphere. Dark stains appeared along its surface, looking somewhat like an encroaching disease permeating and corrupting it.
The hunger pangs were getting to her. Kitty knew it was far too soon for her stomach to clench like that, that she'd gone longer without eating before, but she couldn't deny that her body was rebelling against her. It could be another magical attack, a spell that attacked her will, creating an illusion of weakness and starvation, in the hopes of driving her to the dish of half-rotten, unrecognizable slop by the cell door. Or to capitulating to their demands. How long, she thought. How long until the appeal of food became so strong that it wouldn't seem so bad to offer a little deference to Belasco and Doug? Until she would convince herself that she was just being polite, calling them "Lord" - or, worse, "Master"?
She sank down to the rough stone floor, assuming the lotus position. She couldn't give in, even if she starved to death. A memory flickered, of a nightmare long ago, of her wasting away no matter how much she ate. It struck her; this used to be one of her biggest fears. Doug - it had to be Doug doing this to her.
She'd confessed the nightmare to him during one of their late night hacking sessions, as they'd wolfed down junk food and soda until they felt sick to their stomachs. And he'd told Belasco about it, or had used it against her himself.
She wasn't sure which was worse.
Again she tried to meditate, pushing the hunger and the cold from her mind by sheer force of will. Other thoughts, however, were far more stubborn. As offended as she was by the idea that Doug would use her deepest secrets as a means of corrupting her, part of her felt… flattered? Was that it? Something about how well he still seemed to know her, how much he really understood her, it touched a chord with her. And reminded her that, as much as she loved Piotr, there were ways that she and Doug clicked that she and her fiancé, with their disparate backgrounds and talents never could. Again she thought that in another time and place, maybe she'd be thinking about becoming Katherine Pryde-Ramsey.
She winced – what was this place doing to her? She loved Peter, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, was risking that very life for him and his sister. And this Doug was evil, a willing servant to one of their deadliest enemies.
Breathing in and out, she tried to make the images go away.
"Oh Peter," she whispered, "Where are you?"
Piotr was walking through the tall Siberian grass, feeling the sun on his face. It had been a good day in the fields, but he wanted to get back to wash up before they arrived. He called out to his young bride as he entered their simple wooden cabin. "Ekaterina, I am home."
A voice called out, "I'm in the kitchen, dear, getting dinner ready. Michael's sleeping in the bedroom, so try to be quiet when you change."
He smiled, inhaling deeply of the smell of beets for the borscht. "Da, I will." He moved carefully, making sure he did not disturb the adorable infant in the whitewashed crib he'd built. He brushed two fingers against his lips, and then touched them lightly on his son's brow, before making his way into the washroom. Peter unbuttoned his soiled work shirt and tossed it into a hamper, then gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble there, and decided it was best if he shaved; Mama would surely comment if he didn't. He scrubbed his face, then lathered up. Quick, deft strokes with a straight razor easily disposed of his nascent beard, revealing smooth skin beneath, slightly paler than the rest of his face.
He gazed out the small window, beyond the brightly colored curtains with Chicago Cubs logos on them, at the sun, which cast a warm glow over their land. If there could be a more idyllic scene, he could scarcely imagine what it would be.
His face broke out into a broad smile as the old pickup came down the dirt road leading up to their farmstead. Papa was behind the wheel, Mama next to him. And, in the back seat, little Illyana was hopping up and down excitedly.
"If I believed in heaven…" he whispered to himself, contently.
"Where do you think we are, beloved?" came Katya's voice, from behind. "Why else would your parents be here, and your sister?"
"I… died?" he asked. The idea did not bother him. There was a wrench – he'd failed his friends, his mission. But he'd done what he could, and apparently, even without belief, he'd earned some sort of award.
"You died in the dragon's belly, my love. I was killed by Belasco, as soon as we arrived in his throne room." She wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. "But we're together, now and forever."
"I would have it no other way," he murmured into her hair as he kissed the top of her head, returning her embrace.
She smiled up at him, then gave him a quick swat on his posterior. "Now hurry up – Mikhail will be here soon, and we haven't seen him in forever."
"Yes, dear," he grinned at her, returning a light pop on her own rear. Something tickled his memory about his brother, but it didn't seem important. He grabbed a shirt off a hanger and pulled it over his sleeveless undershirt. He glanced out again, and completely failed to notice the obsidian streaks that were melting across the sky.
Doug walked quickly up the spiraling steps leading to the parapet where Nightcrawler lay dying, two broad-backed kobolds trailing behind him. In his former life, he'd admired Kurt Wagner for his courage, his humor, and his sense of style, but he felt nothing about the fate that lay ahead for the X-man. That may have had something to do with the despicable creature that bore Nightcrawler's face that he'd lived with for several years. But he knew if he allowed this version to die, the earlier chastisement would seem like nothing but a mild reprimand, and that possibly he himself would take Wagner's place in the Rite. Or worse, Belasco would use Kitty as a substitute.
He silently cursed himself for betraying his feelings for the lovely Miss Pryde. Sure, he'd moved beyond that, with Betsy, with Rahne. But he'd always felt a connection to the bright and beautiful girl from Deerfield - he'd never fit with anyone so well as with her. Her comparison to them as Itzhak Perlman and a Stradivarius was well made - they were the team supreme long before he'd met the alien shapeshifter, Warlock. He wondered if they could work so well again, or if the process that blackened his soul - and soon hers as well - would rob them of the magic they'd made together, like that time they'd hacked into Shaw Industries and ended up inside the Department of Defense mainframe.
The irony that he now wielded real magic - that he could be considered a Warlock, when there had always been that fear that his repeated merging with his friend would infect him with that virus and transform him into a Techno-Organic being deserving of that same name - was not lost on him. He had been infected, actually, but Belasco had purged the virus from his body, even as Limbo itself had once been so stricken and healed.
He reached the top, and saw that Wagner was indeed in critical shape. Eldritch sight determined his aura was flickering, almost too dim to perceive. He barked out the spell as requested, crimson fire flashed from his amulet through his hand, encasing the mutant and forcing him into a state of suspended animation. Whether his Master would heal the wounds or sacrifice him as he was, Doug could not say. The Demon Lord had not seen fit to explain the particulars of the spell to him, and he had not dared ask.
"Roger! Brad!" he commanded of his lizard-like servants. He gestured at the ruby-encased man, "Take that carefully to the throne room. Should you drop it, the pain you will experience will be beyond the depths of your fear."
The kobolds bowed and each took a side, disappearing through the archway and down the stairs.
"Anything I should know 'fore we go knockin' on yer ex's door?" Logan asked, smelling the trepidation exuding from Pete Wisdom's pores.
"No. She's a good lass; she'll come through for me. Trust me," his companion said as he climbed the stairs to her flat. "And it isn't like you don't have an embarrassing bout of matrimony in your past now, do you?"
With the loud crack of splintering wood, a huge hole appeared in the door, just above Wisdom's head. "Then again," he said, slightly startled, "Ducking might not be the worst of ideas."
"Embarrassing?" challenged a voice from inside. "You two-timing, two-faced, lying sack of shit, you have the utter gall to come to my home, to ask me some huge favor, and you call our marriage embarrassing? And to think I said no when Robin Goodfellow asked if he could make your precious little willie turn green and fall off."
Testing the door handle, the British spy gingerly pulled it open. Standing in the narrow hallway, brandishing a belt fed shotgun and looking nothing like a faerie princess, the woman eyed him warily. "Logan, I have the honor of presenting my wife, Tink, daughter of Oberon."
"Go to hell, Wisdom," she snarled.
"Y'know, 'sfunny you should say that, luv," Pete quipped, "We were wondering if you might help us do exactly that."
With a toss of her black Mohawk, Tink stared at him over her sunglasses, an eyebrow arched. "Did you think we wouldn't know? That your Sorcerer Supreme's warning against helping you wouldn't reach my father's ears? Now get your sorry arse out of my flat."
"C'mon, petal, don't be like this."
He reached for her chin, but she slapped his hand away. "Be like what, Wisdom? Like a scorned woman? I'm not upset about that anymore – much – but you've got another think coming if I'm going to disgrace my family by helping you screw the pooch on whatever mission your friends are on down in Limbo. Especially since you're just being all moon-eyed over your ex-girlfriend." She shouldered her gun and crossed her arms, "Besides which, magic isn't my thing, remember? I go for the heavy artillery."
"But you have connections, luv. Faerie dust and merry wanderers of the night and all that rot," challenged Pete, moving closer, "Listen, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. They need me down there – nothing but a bunch of do-gooders that're too bloody nice for their own good. The fate of the world in the hands of a bunch of naïve kids. I mean, who are you going to trust, me or an American tosser in a red cape?"
"I don't trust you." She noticed Logan, who'd strolled in and was calmly smoking a cigar as he watched the two spar. "What's your story?" she asked.
"Jus' waitin' fer the fireworks t' settle down," he commented, matter-of-factly. "Listen, I know Strange. An' if you know anything about the man, you know if he really wanted to keep us away, he'd wiggle his fingers an' we'd be shut down. Th' fact we're still movin' about tells me that he ain't as determined as he pretends. An' while I think th' team ain't as green as the cheap suit here thinks, I also know that giri demands I go, an' I'm gonna do whatever it takes to help my friends."
"You, I believe," Tink said, finally. "And frankly, I don't like being told what to do by some high and mighty human wizard. Reminds me too much of Merlyn."
"So you'll help."
She stood a moment, arms on her hips, resting gently on the tutu she wore. "Yeah, I guess. I'll see what I can do." She looked defiantly at Wolverine, as if challenging him to find anything remotely funny about her outfit. "Yes?"
The feral X-man smiled, "Nice boots."
