So. It's been 9 months since I last updated Ghosts. And two months since I last updated this. About two months since I last updated anything. I know, I know, I need give no excuses. Truthfully, all I can say is that real life has been slamming me. Work, therapy, and getting a new laptop (which took an unwholesomely long time to arrange) after the old one broke in late August, then transferring over files which I'm still doing because the keyboard is bust. This is the first chapter written on the new machine. And this chapter has been the biggest clog in the metaphorical drain. I've ended up splitting it up, because it was getting too long and difficult. So many of the scenes just didn't want to come, plus my muse was off frolicking elsewhere and being difficult…
Anyhow, I am back, and I have been writing consistently, beavering away at this, and it's getting there. I was going to do all of this in one chapter, but truthfully, not only has being concise never been a strong point, the heart of something as terrible as Project Pegasus and someone as dangerous as Nimue deserves more than that. So, here's both in all their dreadful glory. Enjoy.
"We can't just leave her," Monica said indignantly. "Not to fight those… things."
"She has faced far worse, with far less experience and far fewer resources to call upon," Strange said.
Monica looked at him sceptically, but before she could voice that scepticism, Gambit cut across her.
"It's true," he said, and Peter nodded his solemn agreement. "Though I don' like it, fact is, she's managed worse, an' we needed a distraction. Now, everyone's goin' to be looking at her, not us."
"Also, we couldn't actually help even if we were still with her," Deadpool said. "Unless we were being cheerleaders. Or strippers. Or strip-cheerleaders."
Monica eyed him for a moment, then frowned at Gambit, who met her gaze.
"This is a heist," he said. "Not a battle. Thief-work, not hero-work – though de two sometimes overlap. An' to pull off a heist, you need t' make sure that y' mark, an' their security, are both distracted."
He turned and led them on, stride smooth, swift, and graceful.
"Yeah, but why like that?" Monica demanded, quickening her pace to keep up. "Couldn't you have just, I dunno, distracted those winged freaks by throwing a grenade or something?"
Gambit shook his head. "Those were clones," he said. "Ah don' know how they got in here, 'cos the guy they were cloned from wouldn' have been more than a year old when Pegasus fell, if that. Point is, what her an' me both recognised is that there's no way they'd have missed us – their original goes by Archangel, 'e sees like a hawk. An' a hawk dat's lookin' the way they were can see movement from miles away."
"Mostly correct," Strange said.
"Mostly?"
"Those aren't clones."
The unspoken question was, naturally, ignored. Instead, they descended deeper into Pegasus, their silence punctuated by unearthly shrieks, the screech and clash of metal on metal, and the deep humming of energy blasts from up above.
"I don't like this," Monica said abruptly. "Maybe it's necessary to get a distraction, but I don't like leaving Carol up there to fight those things. I don't care how fancy that armour-thing is, it doesn't feel right."
"I'm sure it doesn't," Strange agreed. "And I would think a great deal less of you if it did. However, I assure you that she is probably the safest of all of you. She learns quickly, she has experience in aerial combat, and above all, superhuman combat. Combine that with the fact that she is encased in a suit of armour made of the same material as Mjolnir, combined with a charge that could easily have levelled a city block, and I doubt she'll have any serious problems." He smiled whimsically. "Actually, knowing her, she's probably having fun."
Monica stared at him, then at Gambit as the latter let out a soft chuckle. "'e's probably right," he said. "When danger comes callin', some people come alive. She's one of 'em."
"Being a super soldier helps," Deadpool said off-handedly.
"Wait what."
"I'm guessing original Erskine issue, or a really good knock-off," Deadpool said.
"Original Erskine – wait, Captain America style?" Monica said. "When did she get shot up with that? How? And why?"
"Uh, she didn't get shot up with it," Peter said. "Not exactly. She… she has it." He sighed. "She's gonna be mad at us for telling, you know that, right?"
Monica let out a slight laugh. "You're kidding." She looked around at the other sober faces. Or rather, two sober faces, and one spectral face that was rolling its eyes to the heavens. "You're not kidding."
"Runs in the family, too, if her grandma's anything to go by," Deadpool added laconically.
"Can you stop making it worse?" Peter demanded.
"No. I mean, I can make it more worse if you like."
"Please don't."
"Holy shit," Monica said, stunned. "How – wait." She eyed Deadpool. "'It runs in the family'?"
"Yup."
"And she's blonde, blue-eyed and oh my fucking god, she's Captain America's granddaughter."
"Great-granddaughter, actually," Strange corrected absently. "With all his abilities, proportionate to her physique."
"Oh my god. Oh. My. Fucking. God."
"Mind on the mission, please, Miss Rambeau," Strange said.
"But –"
"Best to save the freaking out for later," Peter advised.
"Says the guy who stuck himself to the ceiling."
"Children," Strange said pointedly. "If you please?" He nodded down the corridor. "This is where we start getting to the tricky bit."
"The tricky bit?" Peter asked apprehensively.
"Alan Scott sealed Pegasus for a reason. And unfortunately, that seal was not entirely complete…"
OoOoO
Carol slammed into the ground with a grunt, tucking up her legs and flipping just in time to dodge the silver-blue blur that slammed into the ground, wings clashing as they scissored towards her. Spitting blood-speckled phlegm and ignoring a bitten tongue and some sorely jarred ribs, she sprang forwards, charging her fist and delivering a right cross that would have launched a bus. It staggered the Archangel, but no more. That was fine. She'd expected that, which was why she followed it up, getting inside the reach of those deadly sharp wings. She hadn't faced a direct from one of them yet, and didn't want to. She didn't think they would cut through her armour, but given how thin it was and knowing what an Archangel could do from the Battle of London, she didn't want to find out the hard way.
As it reeled, she delivered one blow to the solar plexus, hard enough to force breath from lungs even with the kind of metallic skin and single-minded killer instinct these things possessed, and then jabbed her thumbs into its eyes, grinding them down and trying not to notice how much they felt like grapes squashing under metallic fingers.
The Archangel let out a screech of agony, one echoed by its three flock-mates – the fourth having lost a wing to a unibeam style blast and been grounded. Carol wouldn't have been against repeating the trick, since it was both effective and non-lethal. Sure, the horrendous screaming would no doubt haunt her nightmares, but she'd take screams over blood on her hands every day of the week. But while there was no visible power bar or anything like that, she could feel a noticeable drop in power after she pulled that trick.
An instant after the screech, she jumped as high as she could, shoving her hands down and blasting herself upwards, Iron Man style, getting above the stooping Archangels. Her prior experience with a suit, brief as it was, had definitely helped. Her current experience, meanwhile, was giving her a yet increased respect for both Tony and JARVIS – an HUD with an AI co-pilot would have been very helpful at this point.
As it was, she was literally winging it, flying more by luck than judgement, and a bit freaked out because of the height. Sure, she trusted her shield-suit. But at the same time, it was thin, and she was still relatively squishy. The results were, in the post-match analysis, not unlike Tony's early flights – a lot of misjudgement of relative momentum, with additional zig-zagging, bouncing around like a hummingbird.
"Okay," she said. "Who's gonna be the next order at KFC?"
Two of them exploded off the ground, blurring up at her, and she instinctively jerked away, clipping one with a blast that sent it spinning, before it righted itself, the two splitting apart, forcing her to spin to track both, fists up and ready. It was about at that point when she realised something very important: Archangels number one and two were circling, looking to pick their moment, but in clear sight.
Archangel number three, however, was nowhere to be seen.
The instant Carol realised this, she felt a rush of wind, heard a cry of challenge, and only really expected to be able to swear before being borne into the ground at face pulping velocities. Part of her was already planning her next move. Another part, however, had other ideas.
One moment she was about to be slammed into the ground by a stooping Archangel, the next she was six feet back, watching it streak downwards, rendered unable to stop by the laws of physics and a brain too slow to process the fact that its enemy had vanished. To be fair, said enemy was thinking much the same thing, along with the fact that she felt almost like a marionette jerked on its strings.
"What the hell?" she said, blinking. She hadn't directed any power, she'd just thought and… "Oh, I am dumb."
The other two Archangels shot towards her, looking to herd her downwards, but, now grinning, she darted above them before looping up and over, spinning on her axis to put herself above one of the Archangels and delivering a withering blast into its right wing, sending it spiralling downwards. Finally, she spun to confront the last.
"The shield is the armour," she said to herself. "My armour is my shield. My mind controls my shield, I can make it go where I want. Therefore…" She darted at the third, and barrel rolled wide, firing a scathing blast. "I control the armour. I can fly, like I would with the Ring."
She grinned a bloody mouthed smile as the last Archangel reeled away.
"I can work with this."
OoOoO
When Strange had mentioned 'the tricky bit', the small party had anticipated something dark and grim, a post-modern temple of shadows, full of slithering horrors. As it turned out, they were part right, part very definitely wrong.
"You know," Monica said. "When you said we were getting to this heart of darkness stuff, I was thinking more like horror movies. This?" She gestured at the scene below them. "This is more like an Attenborough documentary."
It was a hard comparison to argue with. Buried far below Pegasus, against all likelihood and logic, a vast forest had emerged, a mist-wreathed riot of greenery and colour, illuminated with a soft uncanny glow, flickering shapes and lights darting through the trees. It took everyone's breath away.
"Yeah. We even have a British guy who's older than dirt to narrate exactly how we're going to get eaten."
Well. Everyone's breath, with the usual exception.
"He does have a point," Peter said. "I mean, in a nature documentary, you tend to see how different bits of nature interact with each other. Which usually means things being eaten."
"Well, this is not a nature documentary," Strange said. "Though there is a not insignificant risk of being eaten." He eyed them all meaningfully. "A risk significantly lessened if you do exactly as I say."
Monica narrowed her eyes at him. "Why am I getting the feeling that this is the sort of thing you say all the time?"
"Because you are a perceptive young woman," Strange said, unperturbed. "And because, usually, I am right. Even – especially – if certain people do not like it." His pale gaze swept over all of them. "Listen to me: that is not a forest. It looks like one, and in many ways, it acts like one. But Project Pegasus is not a nature preserve, it is a magical weapons factory –"
"You said," Monica said impatiently, before halting at Strange's Arctic glare.
"And you did not understand," came the cold reply. "Yes, magical versions of conventional weapons were created, as they had been in times culture has stories of enchanted swords, knives, hammers, and clubs. Or, indeed, shields. Through magic, all given powers that they never would otherwise have had. But times had moved on. So had war. Project Pegasus was not about recreating the past, it was about reverse-engineering the principles behind it. Magic already presented other options, quantum leaps in pre-existing fields: biological weaponry, remote surveillance, concealment, energy production, even human enhancement. Why not combine the best of both worlds?"
He shrugged.
"It was not unprecedented: alchemy is the ancient foundation of modern chemistry. It is also a mystical art of its own, one that dances on the blurred line between magic and the mundane sciences. The super soldier serum is an example, and Erskine was one of the very few to get it right. And that is because whether consciously or not, he understood a principle that those behind Pegasus and others like it did not: do not meddle with that which you do not understand."
His pale gaze settled on them.
"Every action has a consequence, and the less you understand of the action, the less you will understand of the consequences. The long history of the super soldier project has demonstrated that. Erskine took care to mitigate the risks, because he truly understood what he was doing. He knew that the super soldier process affected more than just the body. 'Good becomes great. Bad… becomes worse'. His successors did not."
His gaze turned to the forest below.
"Their understanding only became worse when they involved magic. Magic is not like a battery, or even a nuclear reaction. It is a force of nature, with all the caprice and unpredictability that implies. Magic is just a little bit alive, with a will of its own, one that responds to the will of others in turn. The founders of Pegasus saw the answer to all their prayers, the solution to all of their problems. They saw the power to reshape the world."
"An' they were right," Gambit said. "Weren't they?"
Strange smiled mirthlessly.
"Indeed they were," he said. "Had it not been for some extraordinary courage and truly inspired thinking by Alan Scott, Carol's predecessor, it would have done exactly that. As it was, it did quite enough damage." He turned back to Monica. "That down there, Miss Rambeau, is not what you think it is. You think it is like Chernobyl with a magical twist; ruins, haunted by escaped experiments or mutated personnel. That is a reasonable enough description of the outer parts, to be sure. The truth about this part, about the heart of it, is quite different – and far worse."
He gestured below.
"The Heart of Pegasus was not destroyed. If it was, it would never have needed the bindings it had, the most critical of which thankfully still stand. No… it was transformed."
Monica blinked at him for a moment, then looked down again, frowning. And as she did, like a camera sliding into focus, she saw it – detail, order… design.
"Son of a bitch," she breathed.
"Now you see," Strange said quietly. "They saw magic as just another resource, and as with other resources, they tore open the Earth to get to it. But the Earth got her own back. They delved too greedily and too deep, thinking they were digging a well when instead they were drilling a hole in a dam. Eventually, the dam burst forth, the attempts at containment failed, and raw magic flooded Pegasus. That magic resonated with the impressions of its purpose, the desires in its steel bones, and the intentions in its making. The result is as you see below you: a living weapons factory, an entire magically powered ecosystem dedicated to creating super soldiers and weapons of mass destruction, ones that it can use to protect itself from intrusion. And despite the hopes of many, it has only ever been dormant, not dead."
There was a moment of silence.
"We're all going to die, aren't we?" Peter said.
"So dark and cynical. Is this story being ghost-written by Zack Snyder?"
Peter eyed Deadpool, then the others – Monica, who shrugged, and Gambit and Strange, who were wearing identical long-suffering expressions.
"Or maybe George R.R. Martin. It would explain the update rate. Though it's not quite sleazy enough. Rothfuss, maybe?"
"Can you stop?" Peter demanded, real anger in his red eyes. "I'm serious! Last time I got wrapped up in something like this, I spent the entire time in the back seat, with a bunch of gods, wizards, super-soldiers, and whatever the hell Gambit is on my side, and none of the bad guys even taking any real notice of me – and I still nearly died! Or worse! Now, I'm part-part-part I don't even know what, the bad guy is probably even more crazy powerful, absolutely taking notice of me, of all of us, and nearly killing me with their slightly-more-than-basic minions! And we're just two super soldiers, one Gambit, two kids with powers we barely know how to use, and one Weirdy Wan Kenobi! And one of our super soldiers is also a kid, and off fighting more minions! And now? I talk a lot, but I listen too: we're about to walk into something that someone with a weapon as strong as Thor's hammer could only just put to sleep! Of course I think we're going to die!"
There was another silence, as the words echoed over the Heart, chased by ragged breathing. Thankfully, nothing seemed to respond to them.
"This is my fault."
The words broke the silence. Considering who was speaking them, even as an echo, they should have broken the world.
"All too often, I live in the future and I am detached from the present," Strange said softly. "I see my plans come together, the pieces falling neatly into place, and I act. I am not blind to the cost, but sometimes I forget just what it means. I see the strength of those involved, enduring as they must, and I acknowledge the scars left behind, but I forget how much they hurt. I see how strong you will be, how strong you are at heart, and I forget how painful the discovery of that strength can be. And while I have tried to do so of late, and to soothe those scars, my focus has been narrowed."
He nodded.
"Very much narrowed. It has been dedicated to adapting to the disruptions I have faced, sharing what I can and doing what I must in the little time that I have remaining. What time I have to spare for little kindnesses and soothing scars has been devoted only to a select few. Others, I had deemed less needing of my time, less vital to my efforts or – as in your case – more able to recover on their own. And that was a mistake."
He sighed.
"I am not the only one who could have noticed, but I am the one who most certainly should – and with my abilities, has the least excuse for not doing so," he said, and looked Peter in the eye. "For that, you have my most sincere apologies."
The boy swallowed, and half-nodded an acknowledgement.
"Peter, you have my word, which will bind my true self as it binds my semblance now," Strange continued. "I will see you, all of you, safely through this place. I will explain to you what has changed – for now, suffice it to say that you are still Peter Parker, and no less human than you were yesterday. I will even explain why, why you are one of the most important people ever to live. Above all, I assure you: you are not going to die."
OoOoO
"They are probably going to die, you know."
It's not said with cackling glee, cold threat, or a thunderous rage. Rather, it's an almost casual indifference to whether Carol's friends (and Deadpool) live or die. That, Carol thought, was somehow considerably more offensive.
Of course, she couldn't really do anything about that right now. She had beaten the last of the Archangels, and had been about to look around either for a way deeper into Pegasus, or a way back to the rest. Then Nimue had turned up. What had happened next was more than a little unfair: she'd waved a hand, and all the remaining dregs of power had drained out of Carol's armour.
With another, apparently idle, flick of her wrist, the ancient sorceress – now looking considerably less ancient, verging on unwholesomely gorgeous in a casual-wear photoshoot sort of way – had then pinned her to the ground like a bug on a card. She couldn't do anything about it, yet. But she would. Oh, she definitely would. Once she figured out how…
"Probably?" she asked instead.
"Well, the effects of that much raw magic being unleashed on the world? The effects are all around us," Nimue said, waving a hand.
"I think you might be underestimating them," Carol said.
Nimue laughed softly. "Child, you were at the Battle of London," she said. "You have traversed Pegasus and survived – an impressive feat, by the way, enchanted armour or no. You can't pretend ignorance of what happens to mortals when they are exposed to such power. They will be changed according to the essence of who and what they are. Those adaptations will be influenced by environment, chance, destiny, and nature's own whim. Not many survive such transformations. Those that do… well." She glanced significantly at the drying bloodstains on Carol's armour. "You and I both know how they turn out."
Carol looked away.
"But you're right," Nimue said. "I have underestimated the young and apparently foolish before. I thought that Arthur Pendragon was nothing more than a spoilt Prince, yet more than once he foiled my plans. I thought that Merlin was merely the gormless boy that he then appeared to be, stuttering at a pair of batted eyelashes, yet he thwarted me at every turn. It seemed to be by chance, and yet when I finally provoked his full wrath, he faced me on my home ground and blasted me to ashes. If he had been more than an untutored child, he would have given me a true death, and as it was, I barely survived – a spirit for millennia, a magical cripple for decades, both shadows of my former self."
She idly took another bite of the gleaming red apple. Carol wondered where it had come from. Did it have anything to do with why the witch now looked like she'd strolled off a catwalk?
"Something that I have only just resolved," she added. "Which means that I am not going to make the same mistake again. So." She flicked her fingers, pulling Carol into a seated position on a conjured chair. "Where is he?"
"Who?" Carol asked.
Nimue's expression darkened, amused twinkle vanishing from her eyes, and clenched her hand into a fist, twisting it to almost ninety degrees. Every muscle in Carol's body instantly spasmed, turning against themselves and the bones they rested against, straining them to their limits, drawing a choked scream. Nimue just watched, calmly, as Carol's scream died down to a hoarse whistle. Then, slowly, ceremoniously, she twisted it back to level.
"Don't play games with me, girl," she said, soft and deadly. "Unless you want me to complete that spell and snap every bone, muscle, tendon, and sinew in your body in your body like a twig. Your heart will be torn apart, your lungs will collapse, and you will die in helpless agony, choking on your own blood." She slowly unclenched her fist. "My hand is around your heart. All I need do is squeeze. Understood?"
Carol, eyes watering, looked up and nodded.
"Good. Now, I have studied the magic of this time as assiduously as I did my own, and I know the difference. Only one sorcerer living would cast spells the way that the one on you and the one on your companions was cast. Only one sorcerer, who would know how I underestimated youths and apparent fools before, might try that gambit again. One sorcerer, only one, could have mastered the Ring of the Green Lantern and handed it to his protégé as if it was a child's toy. So tell me, girl: Where. Is. Merlin?"
Carol stared at her for a long, long moment. Then, despite her fear, she burst out laughing.
Nimue stared at her, utterly confused, as peals of laughter rang out, as pure, joyful, and defiant a sound as Pegasus had seen in decades. Or at least, they were pure and joyful until they drifted into maniacal cackling. The defiance, however, remained.
"What? What is so funny?" she demanded, affronted anger laced with confusion, itself fertile ground for uncertainty and doubt. Namely, that she might – might – have made a very big mistake.
Carol, meanwhile, kept laughing until a gag appeared. Even after, an insouciant light danced in her eyes, amusement at a joke only she knew.
"I could blast you to cinders, I could render you down to atoms, and I would only be getting started on the torments I would put you through," Nimue growled. "You are helpless before me, and you have the gall to laugh?" Her eyes blazed green-flecked gold as she stood over Carol, hands clenched into fists, the Ring burning. "If you do not speak to me plain and with respect, then I assure you, there will be no mercy, not for you, and not for your friends. Quite the opposite, in fact. I had no particular plans for the rest of my life in this changed world, but I have rediscovered a passion for experimentation and invention. Unless you want to bear witness as your friends become my new test subjects, I suggest you answer." She reached out and ripped off the gag. "Now speak."
Carol stared insolently up at her. "You know," she said. "I've been threatened by worse. Just so you know." She shrugged. "I was laughing because it's not Merlin. You miscalculated, Victoria's Secret. There is someone else who went to the same kind of school as Merlin, someone who's still very much alive, and believe me: he's way worse."
"… What?"
"Oh yeah," Carol said happily, twisting the knife deeper. "See, Merlin, by all accounts, is meant to be a decent guy. Upstanding, noble, heroic – a bit ruthless, but those were the times. Hey, you get that, they were your times too! But he was good. This one? He's technically one of the good guys, but facts are facts: he's probably the biggest bastard you're ever gonna meet. He's ruthless, he's deadly, and he's smart. He knew your moves before you even crawled out of that island. But you? You never even saw him coming. And you never will. No one ever does. Not until it's too late."
Nimue stared at her, expression hard, thinking. "You're talking about Doctor Strange," she said eventually.
Carol grinned, all teeth and no mercy. "Yes."
Nimue nodded slowly. "That is… unexpected," she said. "I'd heard the stories, the whispers in the dark – hardly anything confirmed, of course, aside from taking in the Chaos Child and the Duel of Berlin. Even at Pegasus, with the resources of SHIELD, all that we knew was the shadow of a shadow. I'd also heard that he'd stepped out of those shadows in earnest. Good to have that confirmed."
"You… don't seem as bothered as you should be," Carol said, frowning. "I mean, if you actually knew anything serious about him, you would be very bothered."
"Oh, I would be," Nimue said, finishing off the apple, examining the core, then tossing it aside. "Even if all the stories were exaggerations, the man has survived as Sorcerer Supreme for centuries. That implies a significant degree of power and the intelligence to use it. Such an opponent is never to be taken lightly."
"And yet you seem to be doing exactly that," Carol said. "Which… oh, you have a plan, don't you?"
Nimue smiled. "You're quick, I like that," she said. "A little insolent, but insights are often the province and prerogative of fools and jesters."
"Oh, thanks."
"You're welcome," Nimue said. "Yes, I have a plan. I have several, in fact. Considering the amount of power I'm playing with, and the potential obstacles, it's only natural. A battle-hardened member of the White Council's leadership on my doorstep, several active gods including a millennia old master mage resident only a thousand miles to the north, a Sorcerer Supreme who survived centuries of magical warfare at the highest level to seamlessly pass his mantle onto his more powerful successor, a potential new Green Lantern, and Merlin… they are only the greatest of the powers that I took into consideration." She eyed Carol. "Though I perhaps overestimated the threat of the Ring."
Carol rolled her eyes. "Are you going to tell me this plan?"
Nimue considered this for a long moment, idly tapping her chin with her hawthorn wand. "Hmm. No. Instead… instead, I think, I shall tell you a story. A modern myth, a tale of those who stole fire from the gods. Who, inevitably, found that the flames turned on them. Sometimes in some quite interesting ways."
She smiled cruelly.
"So, tell me child – are you sitting comfortably?"
OoOoO
Strange's assurances were given force by both the fact that he did not lie, and an air of charismatic authority that was palpable even in spectral, imprinted form. This did not mean that there wasn't a certain scepticism. This also did not mean that that scepticism wasn't justified.
"Okay," Monica said, ducking one metal ribbed and buzzsaw tipped tentacle. "The glowing squid things were bad enough – I like calamari as much as anyone, but not when it's coming in at head height. But this? This is just bullshit."
"Hardly," Strange said, unaffected by the fact that the tentacle in question had just passed through his sternum. "For one thing, I made sure to avoid the minotaurs."
"I thought there was only one – ohjesusthatwasclose!"
As might be gathered, this was Peter's contribution, delivered just as he narrowly dodged a molten energy blast of dark purple energy that stank of malice, leading the lethal gaze away from squishier members of the expedition. It promptly obliterated everything in its path, including a large chunk of the trees and foliage around them. The groan as they came down seemed to be almost more than was natural. This eerie edge was, like the vague sense that the forest, thick, misted, and full of species that none of them had seen before (including ones that reached down and tried to strangle whoever was in reach. Thankfully, it had been Deadpool who was targeted, so for five minutes they had had blessed silence while his vocal cords healed), was far older than should logically be possible.
Strange shrugged. "You know gods," he said. "One of them has an idea, and suddenly, all of them have to copy it. While pretending that they're doing nothing of the kind, naturally."
"Naturally," Gambit said, propelling himself into the air with a carefully judged explosion, executing a neat somersault, before coming down onto the creature's armoured back stave first, channelling his power through it. Pieces of metallic carapace went flying as the now mortally wounded cyborg, a deranged hybrid of crab and spider, lurched to one side on , its single glowing purple red eye spinning frantically to pick out either a target or an escape route. Unfortunately, by the time it had one out, that one was Deadpool and he had a grenade.
The mess was horrific. The smell was worse.
"The same goes for demons, of course," Strange continued idly. "Of course, there was always something of a blurred line between the two." He paused. "Well, I say minotaurs, but really, they're somewhat… different now. You know how it is: a little cybernetic implant here, a little titanium bone reinforcement there, a reality-warping magical overload to flavour, and suddenly you have ten-foot tall metal-boned bull-headed great apes with mouths like threshing machines, a primitive hive-mind, and a truly terrible disposition."
"Sounds cool," Deadpool said. "Did they do unicorns?"
Strange eyed him. He was not the only one. "They did," he said. "And if you think I am letting you near one, alive or dead, you have another thing coming."
Deadpool looked aggrieved – surprisingly so, considering that he was wearing his mask again. "What, can't a man appreciate nature? Super nature?" he complained.
"The way normal people do so, yes," Strange said. "The way you do, no. Not without violating several fundamental concepts of public decency."
Deadpool grumbled, looking around automatically for new threats as he reloaded. "You know, you are an extremely prejudiced individual," he said. "Especially for a ghost."
"The word you are looking for is 'perceptive'," Strange said. "And since ghosts tend by definition to be very specific impression of a person's psyche at the time of their death, I would argue that – if I was a ghost – there would be no 'especially' about it." He glanced at Deadpool again, and his expression softened by a micron or two. "If you behave, and you ask very nicely, I may be able to arrange for you to meet one." He raised a hand. "But only so long as you bring your wife. By some unknown and previously thought impossible twist of fate, she can actually make you behave. I will also hold no responsibility if you get gored, trampled, or ignored."
"I will take that bargain," Deadpool said.
"Yeah, now, back to the present where there's hopefully no unicorns –"
"Not on this level. I guided you away from those, too. They have an unfortunate tendency to eat people."
"Dis place is the gift dat just keeps on givin'," Gambit remarked.
Monica rolled her eyes. "My point is that aren't we on the clock?"
"More haste, less speed," Strange said. "It is best to wait here for a moment."
"And pick our moment to head on," Monica realised, nodding.
"Exactly. Encountering one of these Guardians was unavoidable. Encountering another fifteen is. Or, indeed, a couple of their twisted inspirations: Quintapeds are among the very few things magically resilient enough to remain more or less unchanged by Pegasus. Possibly because they are quite awful enough already."
"Do I even want to know?"
"Imagine a rampantly carnivorous five legged tribble the size of a van with a face full of fangs, a more or less sentient mind, and an ability to jump high enough to alarm low-flying helicopters."
"… is there anything in here that isn't horrible?" Peter asked after a moment. "Like, I don't know, some of the trees."
"I wouldn' bet on it," Gambit said, and as Peter looked up at him, he nodded grimly at one of the trees. Peter peered at it, frowning, then recoiled. As some people had observed in fond comments on folklore, various trees almost look like people, bent with age or bright and lissom with youth, chances of growth and nature's whim making their curves and angles coincidentally echo those of human beings. This was even reflected in certain spirits, like dryads, that walked the line between flesh and flower.
In this case, however, it was neither coincidence, nor spirit.
"Looks like they got a little close to nature," Peter said, then grimaced. "Ugh. That's not funny."
"Oh, it is," Strange said. "In a gallows humour sort of way. I recommend it. Excellent coping mechanism."
"From y', that ain't reassuring," Gambit said.
"He's not wrong, though," Deadpool said. "I mean, I've got plenty of puns about getting wood."
"I'll pass," Monica said, echoed by the rest.
"To answer your question, Peter, there are a few non-horrific things, actually," Strange said. "While Pegasus was primarily a weapons facility, influencing its character, not all of it was so bad – and it is not now, as a result. Magic is not merely horror, it is wonder, too." His expression turned distant, and a faint smile played on spectral lips. "Dangerous, yes, but there is wonder. Wonder and beauty like nothing you could ever imagine."
He shook his head, turning back to the thickly forested path ahead of them.
"Unfortunately, sightseeing is not on our agenda," he said, as he led them on. "We must get going. Even with the best timing in the world, we are not going to be able to avoid further conflict."
"We bein' watched?" Gambit asked, his gaze sweeping around much as Deadpool's had. Some of the things he looked for were different, and others were the same.
"Oh yes," Strange said. "Not by Nimue, not directly. But I suspect she has a rough idea of where we are, and she has control of the forest. And the forest… the forest is watching."
"Like Lord of the Rings?" Peter piped up.
"Very much like," Strange said. "Which reflects a real life phenomenon: fungal colonies, communicating with each other, spreading news of conditions and changes in environment, in threats. Magic, as here and as always, magnifies. It magnifies everything. Even before it was unleashed, the ambition behind Pegasus was magnified."
"Which one specifically?" Gambit asked.
"The most fundamental one of all," Strange said, looking up into the trees. "Which, unfortunately, is not the most pressing concern at the moment."
Everyone followed his gaze, taking in the long limbed shapes peeling themselves from trunk and branch, that had been branches themselves, slithering down like questing vines. Some were the deep green of a shadowed glade, others the stale white of a corpse, yet others a withered black and a sickly yellow.
It was a very pressing concern.
OoOoO
"I introduced an idea, one that the men who ran this facility were rather enamoured by – and, naturally, annexed as their own," Nimue said. "A Von Neumann machine, a universal constructor powered by captured magic, something that could build any weapon that you could imagine, any at all. The limits of existing technology could not merely be circumvented, but discarded entirely. The only limits was the wielder's imagination. A lot of names were tossed around for it: Project Covenant, the Materioptikon –"
She paused thoughtfully.
"You know, I never actually quite understood where that one came from. Or what it was supposed to mean. Then again, it was the eighties, and if memory serves that was about the time when I decided to spike some of my colleagues' coffee with hallucinogens."
"… why?" Carol asked.
Nimue shrugged. "My plans were in motion, and it wasn't like I had anything better to do." She waved a hand. "Others called it the Wishing Well, the Dream Weaver … they went on and on. The names hardly mattered. But as time went on, another name came forward, one I rather liked. Pandora's Box."
She smiled faintly.
"They weren't entirely stupid. Some among them pointed out that only one person could wield it at a time, that it would be a terrible temptation, that that much power in the hands of one person could not be trusted. Pandora's Box was to be put back on its shelf. But Pandora was not denied. And neither was I. I took it back down off its shelf, dusted it off, and opened it up."
"And it went wrong," Carol predicted.
"It did," Nimue admitted. "I am a big enough woman to accept that in my eagerness, I underestimated the raw power I was trying to harness. I sneered at everyone else for thinking too small, but I was nearly as guilty of that as they were. Though I have to say, my colleagues also rather underestimated how close to the ley line convergence they had come. In any case, the container shattered, and I could not contain what followed. Only Alan Scott could manage that."
"And now you're doing something different, which of course will work, because you can't possibly fail twice," Carol said, rolling her eyes.
Nimue smirked. "Dear child," she said, sounding almost fond. "I'm not some cartoon villain, telling you my evil plan so you can stop it. It's not about if I'm going to succeed. It's when."
She pulled the ring off her finger and casually tossed it aside. The instant it left her hand, Carol tensed, and for a moment, it flashed like a beacon as, apparently freed of her bonds, Carol forgot all her previous doubts and fears and lunged towards it as best she was able.
Then, in the splitting of a second, the Ring dropped like lead. The light faded, leaving nothing but a ring of dull green stone. A moment later, there was another clatter, from something larger, heavier, about the same size as a bedside lamp. And the room went cold.
And that 'when', dear girl," Nimue finished. "Was about fifteen minutes ago."
She dropped down onto her haunches and examined Carol, now caught mid-lunge. She reached out and lightly brushed her fingers against the young woman's pale cheeks, then up, lightly carding through her golden hair. But now, instead of yielding skin and pliant hair, her mocking caress now met firm bark and a cascade of thin golden vines.
Nimue laughed softly and reached down, lightly tapping the gleaming armour. There was a clang, then a ringing rattle as a now dulled metal shield bounced forlornly to the floor, lifeless without a will to guide it.
"You see, I learn from my mistakes," she said, to the unhearing audience. "For one thing, I don't walk into things without knowing my enemies – including, preferably, what they are doing. And you, dear child, were very helpful in that regard. For another…"
She traced a line down the front of her shirt, opening it up to just below her collar bone. As she did, an icy blue glow emerged, bringing out every finely carved feature on the figure before her, illuminating her from soil-bedded root to wind-blown vine.
"… there's nothing wrong with a little constructive plagiarism."
There was no answer.
No snappy retort.
No outburst of defiance.
As the witch left, all was silence.
For who, oh who, would speak for the newest of the trees?
OoOoO
Elsewhere, the trees spoke for themselves, their grown and rooted weapons shed like Autumn leaves from their heights and rising from their roots like mushrooms. Their collective mind, slow and vast as a glacier, yet guided by Nimue's predatory focus, had finally pinned down its targets.
They were humanly shaped, but only in the loosest sense of the phrase; each was lanky not in the way of people, but the way of trees, their shoulders and arms like boles and spreading clawed branches, with lashing vines that sought to reel in their prey. Their heads were completely blank, bald, blind, and almost armoured, save for a pair of diagonal splits down the middle, which opened to reveal unearthly glowing red fungi.
"These guys look like they'd go great in an omelette," Deadpool said, slicing off one arm and impaling another through the chest. It didn't seem particularly bothered by this. "It's like the Last of Us meets Kitchen Nightmares."
"Somethin' tells me they wouldn' live up t' expectations," Gambit commented, dropping low and sweeping the legs of one. It immediately reticulated its arms over backwards, impossibly, maintaining its stability, as both legs twisted, split, and shot out like spear-tipped tentacles. Most people would have been bothered, perhaps even impaled. Most people were not Gambit, who simply swiped his fingers down one rooted arm. That arm promptly caught fire, a fire that rapidly spread throughout the creature's body with a series of crackles and pops of expanding liquids. It thrashed and screamed, uprooting at itself and flailing, beating against its chitinous armoured skin as flames licked out from underneath the plating, the red fruit of its faceless mouth shrivelling in the heat of the inner flames.
Then, a mere eight seconds later, it exploded.
Gambit was already moving, tackling Monica to the floor under the bladed arms of another creature. Peter, meanwhile, was already thirty feet up and still rising, leaping as his instincts warned him just in time. By the time the explosion arrived, all three were clear.
"Man, imagine what you could do with a can of beans."
Deadpool by had not been clear. Minor things like explosions, however, tended to roll off his back. Or at least, they did once he'd regenerated large chunks of his spine, explaining why he was barely sitting up.
"Y' say that like I ain't given it a try," Gambit replied. "'pologies, by the way."
"Yeah, I'd have appreciated the warning."
"Weren't talkin' t' y', Deadpool," Gambit said, watching as the creatures held back.
"Well, you should, because I don't like temporary paralysis, it makes me think of adult diapers and here, it reminds me –" He stopped, twisting as best he could on an opponent, taking a blade of wood and bone through the left lung. Deadpool being Deadpool, he responded in kind, twice over. A plant-like head fell to the ground with a splat, a white cloud flaring upwards from the fruit.
"Man, for someone who never shuts up, his skills do the talking," Monica remarked. "Thanks, by the way."
Gambit favoured her with a small smile, then frowned. "This ain't right," he said. The other creatures were all doing the same thing, formed in a dome all around them, covering around and above, re-rooting themselves in the trees where necessary.
"It is and it isn't, for them, yes, for us, no," Peter said in a rush, having landed. "Oh, this is bad, this is really bad – if it's what I think it is, which is pretty likely –" He stopped as Gambit's hand dropped on his shoulder.
"Breathe," Gambit said. "Then talk. Slow."
"Uh. Well, you're not gonna want to breathe," Peter said. "Those were people, and that is a fungus transforming and controlling their, uh… their corpses. Cordyceps, if I'm any judge. I mean, normally, no cordyceps species affects humans, but this is Pegasus and full of evil military magic creepiness, so, yeah. They can't beat us, so they're joining us, basically." He turned, and swallowed. "Starting with Deadpool."
The others joined him, and recoiled. Given what they were looking at, no one could really blame them. Deadpool was not a pretty sight at the best of times, as if someone had spliced a Ken Doll with an avocado, then burned the result like an overdone sausage. Now, reddish-black tendrils were ripping their way out through skin that hardened like bone, even more warped and twisted then their fellows – cancerous counterparts befitting a man who was now living cancer. He reached up and tore off his mask to reveal a face that was slowly ripping open, healing factor fighting magical infection.
He stumbled and fell, clutching at his face. Skin began to shift and tear. A groan of pain emerged – something about 'hentai'.
Then, the red fruit burst, and headless monsters stood sentinel as hell's own snow fell.
Later, they would reflect that that should have been the end of it: one of their allies transforming into one of the monsters they'd been fighting, and much the same about to happen to them. Both Monica and Peter, brave souls pushed far past their knowledge and limits, and finding those limits far less than they'd believed, flinched away from the descending blanket. Even Gambit, slayer of vampires, schemer supreme of the Red Room, and Thief-King of New Orleans, seemed only able to raise his hands to heaven in a pitiful attempt to ward off the inevitable from the children he stood over; a last defence, hopeless as it seemed.
After all, you couldn't punch it. You couldn't open it, or close it. All explosions did was dissipate it.
Then, he spoke.
"No. It ain't endin' this way."
The mist began to glow, a purple light racing from upraised hands all through the forest, from ankles to tree tops, engulfing it all, glowing brighter and brighter. The mist became a cloud, a cloud that boiled in a flash of blinding light, a beacon of purple flame seen not just through Pegasus, but all the way to New Orleans itself. And following the lightning came the thunder, a massive damp explosion that blasted the roof off of the complex like an erupting volcano, one that shook the city.
Eventually, it faded. Superheated mist now fell as warm rain upon a forest of horrors scorched clean, with little left but charcoal, concrete, and ash. Except, that was, for a single spot of greenery, where three people stood. Two, quite understandably, had dropped their jaws in disbelief.
"Wow," Peter breathed.
"I was going to say something different, but yeah, 'wow' does it fine," Monica said. She looked at Gambit. "No wonder Carol talked you up like a massive badass. I thought you could just charge up objects."
"I charge molecules," Gambit said. "Any molecules, if ah put mah mind to it."
"And water is still a molecule, even if it's not solid," Peter mumbled. He looked up at Gambit. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but you just became very, very scary."
Gambit half-smiled. "Always was, cher, y' just weren't payin' enough attention," he said, then half-turned. "Strange. Y' here?"
"As always," Strange said. "Nice work."
"Thanks."
Gambit reached into a pocket and pulled out the silver ball that at least nominally contained his imprint. No one knew when he'd stolen it. No one knew how, either. He tossed it to Monica, who fumbled the catch, but held it.
"Now, go," he said. "Strange, guide 'em on." He glanced at Peter. "Before somethin' very much scarier than me finds 'em."
Something dull and heavy soared out of the freshly formed clouds, landing with an undignified splat. It was the size of a bedside lamp. It was cracked almost in half. It might once have been green. Something else followed it, something round, its colours clearer and unblemished. It was also recognisable, making it a much less welcome sight.
"Carol," Monica whispered, stricken. "That means…"
"Nimue," Peter said sombrely. "She got her."
As if in answer, far above, the clouds shifted into an aurora, pale blue and threaded with eerie gold.
"It means, I'm afraid," Strange said quietly. "That Gambit's suggestion was a sensible one. And unfortunately, it is one that came rather too late."
Yup. Cliffhanger. I'm evil.
But hey, at least I'm back – and not trying to stick everything into one chapter, because that was absolutely a bad idea. The next one should come rather sooner, never fear. There's a good 7500 words I left off this chapter in disjointed scenes that I'm stitching together, much more than I had of this one when I started it.