PROLOGUE:

CITADEL 3020.04.16

KURT

A lone man stood on a high wall and gazed out into the distance. Beyond the Veil, he could see the Wastelands: a barren, arid desert that offered no succor to the humans who desperately clung to survival within its dusty embrace. It was fitting, he felt. Cold of him perhaps, but it was those same humans who had destroyed this planet with their greed, ruthless ambition and in the end wanton self-destruction. The old metaphor fit perfectly; they had made their bed, now they had no choice but to sleep in it. Or try to survive in this case.

Steeped in his bitter thoughts, he shifted his gaze down to the massive train yard that spread out before him. It was as ugly as the Wasteland beyond it. Miles of grey-green tracks, all non-magnetic metal, set into concrete. Passenger trolleys, freight trains, platform trains stood atop them at intervals, waiting to be put back into use. A trolley entered the yard from the left, winding lazily into its place to rest until morning. It was very late. Not much longer now.

The man took a deep breath, eyeing the train he himself had left not so long ago. It stood on the outer edge of the tracks, near the Veil, ready to leave for the Wastelands beyond. Most of the beds were piled high with the waste that could not be recycled any other way, set to be sent out, dumped and burned at a sufficiently distant location. The train functioned automatically and performed its task every night.

He wondered about its precious cargo. He had done what he could for her, even knowing it might be for naught. They weren't sure whether the gifts they left on these trains were recovered before being dumped. There was some vague evidence from the distant past that they were, but no conclusive proof. They had nothing to go on but faith.

"When the sun rises at midnight, salvation is at hand," he murmured in her memory, hoping for a miracle that would save her.

Then he closed his eyes and whispered an ancient prayer. His ancestor had found solace in faith, a faith of compassion, and he himself had sought the same. He had even adopted the man's last name, which his family had hidden for generations. It had been an act of youthful defiance, foolish perhaps, but thankfully no one had ever noticed. That name was lost to history now. Except that it lived again in him.

Down below, the train lurched into motion. The man's heart jumped in his chest. Hope, it was a dangerous emotion to feel, but he had given up trying to suppress it long ago. He whispered one more prayer, before turning away. No matter what happened, at least she was free now. No such solace for him, not yet.

Setting his shoulders, Kurt Wagner, human descendant of the ancient teleporter, returned to the life he had no choice but to keep on living.

ROBERT

The stately man with black hair, just starting to show grey at the sides, wearily rested his head on the door to his penthouse before entering. What a horrific day. What a horrific week. For a moment, he longed to get away from it all.

Sighing, he pushed the useless feeling aside as he pushed into the apartments beyond the door. There was nowhere else to go.

Since the late afternoon, he had been consumed with hunting down individuals, getting their stories, and then doing everything in his power to make sure those stories never made it any further than the interrogation room. In the process, he had also pulled in favors, let slip controversial pieces of information to parties who would be concerned with such, and sowed doubt under the stories of three vile young men who should now be in prison for their actions, not at home with their families. Life was never fair, and this was just one stark example of that fact, no more than that. Or so he tried to tell himself.

The spacious chambers he entered were done in shades of black, red and grey, but none of that was visible in the eerie glow of the time that is no longer late night but not yet early morning. The floor to ceiling windows opening to the right of the entry stood like ghostly sentries. The furniture placed throughout the room were reduced to obstructions, either hidden in shadow or glowing dully from the ambient light.

The man barely noticed his surroundings, however, as his mind refused to let go of the events of the day. The price had been high, but he had prevailed. It should be one of his greatest coups, but he found no pleasure in his ability to keep those two deaths quiet. He acknowledged that all his efforts would have been for naught save that neither the gang nor the attackers had seen a mutant power used. Had they, he would have lost everything. He dwelled on that thought: in the end, and in spite of all his work, he had simply been lucky. It was a terrible kind of luck.

Stopping, he punched the wall to his left softly in frustration. One couldn't live on luck, though he had drunk from that well for far too long. If only he had killed her, he thought, all those years ago, and not been tempted by the opportunity she presented. Then, the terrible events of this night and this week past would have been avoided. If only he had killed her.

But he hadn't, and now fortune had come to take its due.

The man shook his head in sadness, as the burst of anger faded to guilt. Weariness momentarily weakened him and tears began to fill his eyes.

He pulled out his phone and looked at the last message she had sent to him.

They know. Find El—

A message sent in desperation. A message that had started the chaotic turn to his day. A message that had allowed him to forestall complete disaster.

He should have deleted it hours ago and wasn't sure why he hadn't. Foolish hope that he could work some magic trick and fulfill that last request no doubt had something to do with it. The luck had run out by then, however: there had been nothing left to find.

His thumb hovered over the delete button, then landed on it for a long moment. The phone buzzed softly, letting him know that the words were gone, and that no trace of them would remain on his phone.

Resolutely wiping his dark brown eyes with a tanned hand, he breathed deeply to regain control. He would need it for what he had to do next. There would be time to mourn later.

Committing himself to the task at hand, Robert Kelly strode through his living room, then turning left, entered a hallway at the back. At the second door down, he stopped, and braced himself. There would be no games here, no tricks to soften the blow, no half-truths to turn the brutal into the palatable. Only the cold, hard truth.

He knocked, knowing he was likely waking the individual within.

"Dave, I'm coming in. Something's happened." As he opened the door a pair of stone-cold grey eyes, far from sleep, found his instantly. The face that held them was as cold and hard as granite in the depth of winter. The son had no words for his father, only his icy fury. For a moment, Robert thought about withholding the devastating news he was about to deliver.

Then, he took a deep breath, and began.