This one has been a really long time in coming! Not only is it my first ever attempt at a crossover, but also my first try at an X-Men fic in general. Hopefully those two factors won't drag it *too* far down. Just a couple of points before you get stuck in, though, just in case any of you were wondering about little issues:
1) This fic takes place in the D&DC Realm, with little mention of the X-Men's home-world/dimension/whatever. Those of you who are unfamiliar with the D&D cartoon might find some parts a little confusing. I've tried to make it as comprehensible as possible, even to people who have never before seen the show, but there might still be bits that make little or no sense.
2) The X-Men in this fic are taken solely from the Fox series and not the comics, which I've only read in very small doses and not nearly enough to write a fic about. Consequently, there may be little character differences, so put them down to that. Also, (and I know I'm going to be flamed horribly for this) the characters of Rogue and Gambit use "I", "sugar", and "this" as opposed to their comic-book dialogues... surely everybody reading this knows they speak in Southern accents! Hopefully, this won't be too big an issue, but I figured I'd better warn you anyway. Oh yeah, and it is also based on the assumption that the X-Men have not yet met Apocalypse, so presumably takes place fairly early in the series.
3) The D&DC universe I've used is a little twisted. The story begins almost immediately after the end of the episode "The Box", but assumes that this episode occurs at the very end of the entire series (which I know it didn't, so humour me!), BUT also that the episode "The Dragon's Graveyard" never happened at all (still with me?). Obviously, if you've never seen either of these two episodes, then it really doesn't matter either way, but for those of you who know these episodes fairly well, that's the way you should be looking at it.
4) This was written mainly as a character-development driven fic, and consequently, there is a whole lot of angst (on the part of both fandoms). Consider yourself forewarned.
5) LEGAL DISCLAIMERS: In the making of this fic, I have owned only the ideas and storyline. Nothing else. The X-Men characters belong to Marvel. The D&DC characters belong to TSR. The £6, 000 phone bill that I am running up by posting this insanely long fic to the internet belongs to my loving father ;)
And finally, my most important word of advice to anyone who is still reading even after all that: read, enjoy, and please, please, please, give me some feedback!
Keep The Faith,
Your humble author, Super Lemmingo.
"THE QUINTESSENCE OF EVIL"
By Super Lemmingo
CHAPTER ONE -- "THE SUMMONING"
"Listen, Pretty Boy! I don't care how important Xavier said this so-called 'emergency' is! There's no *way* I'm going out in this kind of weather! We'll be blasted out of the sky in seconds!"
Scott 'Cyclops' Summers grinned and shook his head in mock-reprimand. "I must say I'm disappointed in you, Logan," he said, climbing into the pilot's seat of the sleek blue aircraft known as the Blackbird. "I never saw you as the type to be scared by a little thunder and lightning."
"A little thunder and lightning?" snarled Wolverine. "It's a goddamned hurricane! We don't stand a chance against this kind of goddamned weather! And don't give me that 'the Professor wouldn't ask us to do this if it wasn't important' speech of yours, 'cos it ain't gonna work!" He stood stubbornly outside the craft, arms crossed as he leaned against the door and watching Cyclops run through a quick system check. "Yer crazy if ya think you'll come back alive!"
Pushing past him with teenagerish impatience, Jubilation Lee--or simply 'Jubilee'--turned to smirk at him as she climbed up into the ship. "Aw, c'mon, Wimp!" she cried, jumping happily into the chair beside the already-seated Cajun, Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau. "We've been out in *way* worse weather than this! Be a man!"
"Watch your mouth, kid," Wolverine snarled in response.
From where she stood, calm and quiet as always, behind Gambit's seat, Ororo 'Storm' Munroe smiled gently at him. "Your concerns are misplaced, Logan," she said with her usual soft-spoken confidence. "The weather is no worse than anything we have experienced before. Our safety for the duration of the Professor's mission is guaranteed." Though she spoke directly to Logan, her eyes moved to take in all of her companions, reassuring each of them in turn.
"Yeah? Well, I never did trust the Weatherman," muttered Wolverine, moving to stand stoically beside her, and crossing his arms impatiently. "I swear, if we end up six feet under because of this, I'll kill every last one of you."
Beside Cyclops, Rogue laughed and turned to address him, a playful grin on her lips as she stretched lazily and shook her head in disgust. "Hey Logan, you gonna quit bein' a baby any time soon? 'Cos I don't know about you, but *I* just wanna get this thing over with." She winked and returned her attention to Scott. "Well, Cyke? Can we get going already?"
Scott nodded and revved the engine, and as they rose slowly into the air, Wolverine sighed wearily to himself, filled with an indescribable certainty that it was a suicide mission. He knew he was being irrational, but to be perfectly blunt, he didn't care; his instincts were honed well enough for him to have learned-albeit the hard way-to trust them. Growling, he rested his elbows on the back of Jubilee's seat and gazed forwards, eyes blank and unseeing. Why the hell couldn't the others see it? Certainly it was not like Professor Xavier to send so many of his strongest X-Men-*and* Jubilee-out to deal with a problem, no matter how much of an 'emergency' it was, and Logan's concern was doubled by the fact that Xavier had been willing to risk having the six of them all in the Blackbird under such undesirable--not to mention potentially lethal--weather conditions. Thinking about it, Logan silently decided that travelling the 2000+ miles to their destination on foot would have been safer than cramming all six of them into the small aircraft for what was to be a very bumpy ride. Still, who was he, one overly-anxious mutant, to argue with the unshakable logic of Charles Xavier and Scott Summers?
The others were talking, making idle conversation in an attempt to pass the time; a useless waste of effort that Wolverine had long ceased to participate in. Storm, Rogue, and Cyclops were discussing--in decidedly hushed voices, Logan noted--the enigmatic intricacies of their latest mission, the unknown details that Xavier had conveniently left out in his haste to send his students on their way as quickly as possible. Jubilee was talking animatedly to Remy, babbling excitedly in her usual juvenile manner; Gambit was listening with what was obviously only half an ear, nodding every few seconds but clearly not paying attention.
Wolverine sighed. Pathetic. Why couldn't they *ever* just sit and endure a journey in silence? Logan thrived on silence; he spent it thinking about the important things in life...namely, bloodshed and battle plans. He blocked out the droning buzz of his comrades' conversations, focusing on the situation that lay ahead; the Professor's instructions on the matter had been brief and, to a large degree, incomplete, but he had given Wolverine the impression that there would be cause for aggression. Frowning thoughtfully as he turned his attention to the howling winds that lashed against the window, Logan felt another twinge of nervous anxiety pulling at his gut; certainly, he would not have been caught dead participating in this obviously-doomed excursion had there *not* been the promise of violence.
Every minute or so, the Blackbird would jolt, shaken by the force of the winds that screamed all around them and the searing sheets of rain that buffeted them from all sides. Watching thoughtfully as the power of the elements struggled to ground the uneasily floating vessel, Logan released a soft groan. Storm and Jubilee were right; they had endured far more severe weather conditions than these, and survived without so much as a chip in the Blackbird's paint. So, if that was the case, as indeed it was, then why did the knot in Logan's stomach draw even tighter at the mere thought of the tempest that surrounded them?
One thing was certain, he knew-and it worried him even more to realise that the others appeared completely oblivious to this fact. This was no simple storm; though the elemental mutant of the same name seemed calm and at ease with the raging winds and screaming rain, Wolverine knew better. This was something far more serious, far more dangerous, and far more frightening.
A particularly explosive gust of wind crashed thunderously against the hull of the Blackbird, catching Logan off-balance, and, before he was fully aware of what had happened, he found himself staring helplessly at the floor as it rushed up towards him, until, with a resounding *CRACK*, he felt the sharp slap of humiliation as his face made painful contact with the unyielding ground. "Goddamn it!" he heard himself cursing as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Raising his head and staggering to his feet, he spun around in a perfect 360-degree circle, taking in every one of his companions with his steely gaze.
"Any one of you jokers make *one* comment about this, and ya won't live long enough to apologise for it," he growled, gripping the back of Jubilee's seat tightly in an attempt to mask his chagrin. "Y'understand me?"
Nodding, Scott quickly turned back to his consoles, suddenly focusing very hard on maintaining his course; still, Logan was certain he could see a smug grin crossing the Goody-Goody mutant's face as he turned away. Rogue gave a muffled cough and covered her face; Wolverine growled dangerously at the sounds of her suppressed giggles. Jubilee made no attempts to hide her laughter, but at least she had the decency to shut up when he shot her a warning glare. The damned Cajun was grinning, somehow managing to keep from laughing out loud; Wolverine glowered at him, but did not say anything. Storm smiled in that gentle way that she had, and placed a hand on his shoulder; outraged, he pushed her away, and returned bitterly to his musings.
"Logan," she said softly, intruding into his thoughts. "In order to prevent further...incident...may I suggest that you remain focused on our mission? I know that you are troubled and concerned, but please do not allow your discomfort to interfere with your ability to function. We shall need you when we reach our destination." She brushed his hand lightly with her own, and he found himself gazing submissively into those expressive African eyes.
"Y'mean *if* we reach our destination," he muttered coldly, forcing himself to turn away from her compassionate gaze. "And I'm not *concerned*, I just don't wanna be inside this bucket of bolts when it decides to blow. That so wrong?"
She shook her head, but said nothing further on the matter. Wolverine rolled his eyes at her and muttered harshly under his breath as she turned to stare thoughtfully out of the window. Still, in spite of his disgust at her advice, he did not allow his mind to wander again, instead remaining stoically focused on the bumps and jolts that rocked the Blackbird at increasingly frequent intervals.
Feeling another's eyes on him, Wolverine glanced around with primal rage, consciously keeping a wild fire blazing in his dark eyes. It took him a few moments to figure out that it was young Jubilee who was looking at him, wearing a smile so fraught with juvenile cockiness that he felt physically sickened by it. "What're you staring at, kid?" he demanded, scowling angrily down at her; even as the words left his curled lips, he regretted his harshness.
"You know, *Wolvie*," she said, smirking with that childish innocence that he found simultaneously endearing and outrageous. "In spite of what you may think, smiling actually doesn't kill you. Why don't you try it?"
Growling, he shook his head. "Maybe *smiling* doesn't kill you," he muttered coldly, once again feeling the bitterness of his own cruelty biting at his heart, "but being too damned carefree sure does. You might wanna water down that goddamned cheerful attitude of yours, kid, before it knocks you down for good." Forcing his lips to form something of a cannibalistic leer, he trapped her eyes with his most piercing and violating stare.
His stare had the desired effect; the wide-eyed grin dropped from her face, and she lowered her gaze. Under any normal circumstances, he would not have even considered addressing the girl in such a brusque manner, but something about the bad weather, the mysterious nature of the Professor's instructions, and the general air of 'wrong-ness' that permeated the entire area, had set him on edge, and he found himself unable to refrain from lashing out. Though he consciously regretted his harshness, he could not quite bring himself to apologise, and merely remained silent and solemn, and, more importantly, alone.
And so, finally freed from the prying insistence of his comrades, Logan returned his attention to the incessant whipping of the wind and the ceaseless wailing of the rain as they pounded against the side of the Blackbird. Gripping the back of Jubilee's chair even more tightly, and feeling the thing buckling slightly under the pressure of his fingers, he saw Storm stumbling forwards, having apparently lost her own grip on Gambit's seat. "Damn it, Summers!" he cursed, reaching out to steady her before she hit the ground. "Can't you control this goddamned thing any better? What happened to 'a little thunder and lightning'?"
Cyclops wasn't listening. He was staring at the skies ahead, open-mouthed and shocked into silence. Wolverine frowned at him, then followed his gaze, hearing a choked gasp from Rogue and a hushed cry from Jubilee as they too turned to see what it was that had struck Cyclops with such force. As he caught sight of it, Logan felt his chest tightening with pure, unbridled panic, and his throat clenched around his voice-box, the only thing keeping him from uttering blasphemous expletives as loudly as he could.
"By the Goddess..." whispered Storm, apparently the only one among them who had sustained her facilities for speech. "What is that?"
The skies were literally tearing themselves apart. At first glance, it seemed like the clouds were simply being blown by the force of the winds, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that this was not the case; they were being forced apart, and between the rolling swells of darkness appeared what could only be described as a 'hole' in the sky. It was long and wide, the pale yellow streaks of the outermost edges blurring and congealing to form a blood red diamond at the very centre of the indescribable 'thing'. The gleaming crimson orb seemed to pulse with some sort of supernatural power, and, much to Logan's surprise and concern, it appeared to be just about the same size as the Blackbird.
And, of course, they were heading straight towards it.
"Gambit never seen anything like *this* before," Remy murmured, speaking almost to himself. Wolverine paid the babbling Cajun no heed, preferring to focus his attention on the static Summers, who seemed completely incapable of moving, so transfixed was he by the bizarre void.
"Hey! Cyclops!" he yelled. "Come out of Daydream Land and steer us away from that thing! Whatever the hell it is, I don't think we wanna get too close to it, do you?"
Scott shook his head, momentarily back to his normal, unflappable self, hands already on the Blackbird's controls. "What the--?" he cried, panic overcoming his features once again as he wrestled with the console in front of him, pounding desperately at the control panel. "Nothing's happening! The controls aren't responding!"
"Damn it, Summers, this isn't the time to be jokin' around!" Wolverine heard himself shout, even though he knew full well that Scott would be the last to make any kind of joke, let alone one as dangerous and tasteless as this one would have been, had it indeed been a joke. Even before Cyclops turned to stare at him, he was aware of how idiotic the statement had been, but he found himself wondering what else there was to do in a situation as crazy as the one they suddenly found themselves in.
Jubilee had covered her face with her hands, but was peeking nervously through her fingers as the looming sunset-coloured vortex drifted ever closer to the doomed Blackbird. "We're heading straight towards it!" she wailed, voice made high-pitched by terror. "Will somebody please *do* something?"
"Too late for that, sugar!" cried Rogue, shielding her eyes from the searing orange glow. "Whatever that thing is, we're gonna hit it any second now!"
She was right. It was only a matter of moments before the blazing void enveloped the helpless Blackbird, and the moment it did, the world turned upside-down. Never in his life had Logan experienced such profound and frightening disorientation; it began as the walls and floor of the Blackbird began to disintegrate before his eyes, and only worsened as he suddenly found himself drifting and floating on a dull grey ocean of violent, invisible waves. Borne up by some unseen--and partially unfelt--force, Wolverine allowed himself to twist and roll, caught by each non-existent breaker as it engulfed and carried his body through an endless sea that consisted of nothing but air. It was vertiginous to say the least.
Glancing across at his comrades, he saw that they too were caught in a bizarre, suspended free-fall, held up by these unseen waves that simultaneously did not exist and had the strength to keep them afloat in a seemingly infinity galaxy of absolute nothingness.
Cyclops was drifting, posture tense as he struggled to maintain some sense of identity in this plane of obvious chaos; Logan smiled at his unquestionably doomed endeavour to supply a degree of rationality to this insane situation. Storm had her eyes closed and her fists tightly clenched in what appeared to be some form of meditation; Wolverine knew better than to try and address her when she was in that kind of state. In stark contrast, Jubilee had wrapped her arms around herself, and was whimpering softly; Logan shook his head at the child-like way in which she felt forced to express her terror, but he found himself unable to state his distaste aloud, partially due to his own uncomfortable paralysis. Even Rogue seemed actively affected by this unusual new reality; her face was pale and her jaw clenched, but, like Cyclops and Wolverine himself, had the strength not to express her discomfort. Gambit was staring straight ahead, and his eyes were very wide as he spasmodically clenched and unclenched his fists; Logan winced as he saw the Cajun rolling head over heels on several occasions, thrown around by some unseen force.
Time became an abstract concept. There was no way of knowing for certain whether it had been minutes, months, or millennia since the Blackbird had dissolved, but as he squinted into the dark abyss that seemed to go on for eternity in all directions, Logan suddenly became aware of a tiny pinpoint of light, a point of light that was growing larger at an alarming rate. It only took a very short time--or, what Logan could only assume was a short time--to realise that it was in fact starlight.
Before Logan had the chance to find his voice and inform the others of this development, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was no longer being held up. As he felt his body beginning its sharp descent towards a ground that seemed miles away--and had certainly *not* been below them moments ago--he glanced up at the stars that glittered so brightly above him, and realised that the constellations he was staring at were completely alien in nature, a fact which made his head spin even more than the sickening speed at which he suddenly found himself plummeting towards the ground.
Somehow landing on his feet, Wolverine whirled around, watching as his companions hit the ground beside him. Gambit and Jubilee crashed to the floor, landing in an unpleasant tangle of flailing arms and legs; Rogue kept herself from hitting the ground, using her flying power to hover a few feet above the rustling yellow grass; Cyclops and Storm, like Logan, managed to land on their feet, and stood, frowning with undisguised curiosity at the strange new world in which they found themselves, a world that looked shockingly like a moonlit Savannah.
"Greetings."
Extending his claws on reflex, Wolverine spun full circle in an attempt to identify what manner of creature had spoken to him. It took a few seconds for him to see the tiny old man who stood at his feet, a wise and good-natured smile on his wrinkled face. "Who're you?" he snarled dangerous, not retracting his claws.
The old man chuckled softly, and shook his head. "Be patient, my friend," he said smoothly. "You may wish to sit down, for what I must speak of may be difficult for you to comprehend." He gestured invitingly towards the vast expanse of crackling grass that surrounded them, eyes twinkling kindly.
"I don't think so," said Jubilee with a smirk. "You're talking to guys who take on crazy humans and psycho mutants every day. I don't think whatever you have to say will surprise us too bad, do you?" She flashed her eyes at him, and he shook his head in response, seating himself on a soft patch of grass.
"I suppose you are correct," he said thoughtfully. "My name, as far as you need to know, is DungeonMaster. I will be your guide and advisor while you are in this Realm. Now, I am sure you are wondering how you came to be here. The answer, in as much as you need to know of it, is very simple: I brought you here, because your extraordinary powers are needed to help six pupils of mine to fight a great and deadly evil. Now, you must understand the importance of your role here; certainly, I would not have been so rash as to create a portal under such easily-observable conditions had your immediate presence here not been of utmost urgency. Ideally, I would have preferred to wait until you were many miles away from what you call 'civilisation', but I am afraid that a concealing blanket of cloud will have to suffice as protection from others of your kind."
"Excuse me, sir," said Scott, ever the diplomat. "But what do you mean?"
"Forgive me," the old man replied. "It is of little importance. Know only that you are here now, and, if my precautions were adequate--as well they should be--nobody from your world is aware of your disappearance. Now, as for your purpose here... A terrible evil has pervaded the Realm, and I fear that my young pupils will be unable to challenge its sinister tendrils of corruption. You must help them to vanquish this..." he paused, "this malevolence, or the Realm and all of its inhabitants will be hopelessly doomed. The Force of Evil known as Venger has--in ways that remain a mystery, even to one as knowledgeable as myself--obtained an enormous amount of power, such that truly makes me fear for the safety of all that I have created. If he is not stopped, he will destroy the Realm, and with it, all that is pure and good."
Wolverine growled, but somehow kept himself from saying anything out loud. Thankfully, the thick-skulled Cajun Gambit opened his mouth first, meaning that, for the time being at least, Logan would be able to keep his disdain to himself. "Gambit not sure that makes sense," he said very quietly. "It sound like this be your problem. What it have to do with us? We don't live in this 'Realm', so why you askin' *us* to defend it for you?" He frowned curiously at the old man.
"You must understand, my friends," DungeonMaster said very softly. "Without your help, we are doomed. I chose to summon *you* because you are all pure of heart and of righteous nature. I believe that you, with your powers, will be able to help my pupils vanquish the Force of Evil, and I am certain that you will be willing to help us. Of course, if you are truly heartless, I will return you to your universe, secure in the knowledge that you have sentenced an entire World to death." He paused again, taking a breath. "You see, I *know* you, every one of you. Cyclops, Rogue, Gambit, Storm, Jubilee, Wolverine. I know you, and I know that you will not leave us to fight a hopeless battle alone."
Cyclops sighed, and Wolverine could see the idiotic group leader was already beginning to weaken. "How do you know us?" he asked. "How do you know what's in our hearts, and what we think?"
DungeonMaster chuckled, but did not say anything. Wolverine felt his blood beginning to boil. "Damn it, Mister!" he cried. "Ya can't just drag us here against our will and demand that we fight your battles for you! And if *that* weren't bad enough, now yer tryin' to play the guilt trip on us! Well, it ain't gonna work, buddy. I don't fall for no goddamned sob stories!"
"You must understand, Logan," the old man said, never once raising his voice. "I am desperate. Never before has this Realm been a victim of such pure and unbridled power. Please realise that, had the situation been different, I would not have summoned you here." He met Wolverine's sceptical eyes, and the headstrong mutant felt his body being struck at a physical level by the painful-and somewhat embarrassing-sight of tears welling in those wise depths.
"Fine!" he growled after a few terse moments, turning with bitter rage to scowl at Cyclops and the others. "But I ain't happy about this!"
*****
The jagged protrusion of rock was the perfect lookout spot, and as the handsome young Ranger stood atop it, proud and strong in his solitude, the cold wind whipping through his clothes, he felt a harsh jolt of nostalgia twisting around his heart. With a bitter sigh, he sat down on the weathered surface of the rock, waiting patiently for the flood of emotion to overwhelm him. He had been expecting it; in fact, it was rather overdue. These explosions of hopelessness and melancholy always seemed to know exactly when to reach him, and it always seemed to happen when he was alone, standing guard during these long and lonely nights while his five friends caught up on some much-needed sleep.
He always volunteered to take the first watch, preferring to endure this frightening roller-coaster of emotions as soon after nightfall as possible. It would be a good few hours before one of the others relieved him of his tedious duty. While he waited, keeping half an eye out for any signs of danger, he allowed the pestilent doubt to devour him; finally, after so many long and endless months spent wandering helplessly around the Realm, he was starting to tire.
There was no denying that things had changed. At one point, the mere thought of being trapped forever in this upside-down world had been laughable; his passionate optimism coupled with his friends' devoted trust in his leadership skills had once meant that the idea was simply not an option. As time had passed, though, and the days became weeks and months, their faith had dwindled, and with it, his previously unshakable confidence in DungeonMaster to guide them towards that eternally ambiguous portal. And now... Well, even in light of all this, he found himself unable to entirely give up hope, but he was unquestionably finding it more and more difficult to offer the heroic wisdom and courage that he knew the others sorely needed. He cared deeply for each and every one of them, and it was this almost paternal dedication to ensuring their well-being that, at times, was the only thing that kept him going.
The reason for this particular bout of self-loathing and depression was clear. Yet another fouled-up chance to return to the world they called home. Yet another screw-up on his part. Yet another example to add to his list of reasons why he should have handed his leadership over to Eric the cocky Cavalier. He knew, deep inside, that this latest failed attempt to reach their home-world was no more his fault than any of the countless other lost chances, but that reassuring jewel of knowledge did little to console him as he stood, alone and miserable, and considered their latest heartbreaking adventure.
It had seemed so perfect, as they all did, at first. DungeonMaster had instructed them to free an old friend of his, a Sorceress named Zandora, who had been trapped inside an inescapable alien world; Sheila had been the first to observe the parallel between Zandora's situation and their own. Still, tempted by the promise of a possible way home, Hank had led the others on a hazardous adventure in an attempt to free the helpless Sorceress. Having achieved their goal, and been offered in return the portal that they sought with such feverish desperation, the untimely appearance of Venger, the infamous Force of Evil, in yet another attempt to capture the Young Ones and their magical weapons, had almost resulted in the destruction of both the Realm and the Earth; through a painful--and almost predictable--twist of fate, Hank and the others had been able to defeat the villainous demon... at the cost of destroying the portal that could have taken them home. Again.
The blow had been devastating to all of them, but Hank had felt that this latest failure was a suggestion of some sort, a suggestion that *he* was doing something wrong. Perhaps his priorities were not correct, perhaps going home *was* more important than doing what he knew was the right and heroic thing. Perhaps being a hero-achieving the renowned status that he had spent his entire life searching for with such unspoken intensity--*wasn't* the most important factor any more. He knew that Eric in particular had become tired of his inherent lawful attitude, and he couldn't help but wonder if the others were beginning to share the Cavalier's undeniably contagious point of view.
"Hank?"
Upon hearing the sound of his name spoken aloud, he lowered himself into a fighting stance, drawing his bow and aiming it directly at the silhouette that slid stealthily through the shadows towards him. He recognised immediately the sympathetic smile of his friend Diana, and lowered his weapon, though the discomfort at his inexcusable jumpiness stayed with him for a long while. "Hey," he said in an attempt to disguise his internal conflict. "It's not your watch yet, is it?"
She chuckled softly and shook her head. "No. Couldn't sleep, I guess. Besides--" she paused, offering him that reassuring grin that he knew so well "--you were thinking so loud, I'm surprised anyone could sleep through it." Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she moved to sit beside him. "You want to talk about it?"
"No, I'm all right," he said, silently cursing his innate pride and need to keep things to himself. "It's nothing that won't sort itself out eventually." He knew that he was lying, and judging by the scepticism on her face, she knew it as well.
She nodded empathetically and squeezed his shoulder, but did not say anything. Hank sighed, resting his head in his hands. They sat there for a few long minutes, during which time neither of them spoke; this new silence, however, was far from the hollow emptiness that it had been previously, during his solitude. It was a comforting silence, and he allowed the purity of her unspoken assurances to wash over him as they sat together under the sky; in a way that none of his other friends could possibly equal, Diana was able to offer him the solace that he, as an unwilling leader, needed so desperately.
Eventually, he broke the silence, hearing the sound of his own voice reverberating strangely through the chill air long before he was aware of having spoken. "Do you trust me?" he asked in a choked, pained whisper.
"Trust you?" she repeated.
He nodded, removing her hand from his shoulder and gripping it tightly in his own. "Do you trust me?" he said again, stressing each and every word. "I mean, really trust me. To keep up this pretence of being a great leader, to steer us in the right direction, *to get us home*?"
"Yes," she said, without a moment's hesitation. "And it's not a pretence. You *are* a great leader, and everyone knows it, even Eric... although he'd never admit it. Nobody else could have taken us through half the crazy stuff you've led us through. Nobody. We all know it, and we all believe in you, but *you* have to believe in yourself, because if you can't trust your own skills and judgement, how do you expect the rest of us to trust you?" She paused, gazing into his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're losing faith. You *can't*. We need your strength, your energy, your leadership. We need *you*, Hank, and the last thing we need right now is for you to give up on yourself."
He glared at her, feeling the fire of his emotion beginning to break to the surface. "I'm not giving up!" he cried angrily, struggling to keep his voice down, as he became aware of the soft snores of Eric and the others. "It's just...well, I *haven't* gotten us home yet, and to be honest, I haven't done much of anything--well, except for listening to what DungeonMaster has told us...and anyone could do that. All I've done is given you guys reasons *not* to go home when we had the chance." He released her hand and covered his face. "And if I'm not the one to blame, then there's only one person who is, and that's DungeonMaster." He did not raise his head, but could feel her shock at the implication he was aiming at. "And if *he's* the one we can't trust, then what do you suggest we do?"
She glared at him. "This is what I suggest." She spoke softly, taking his hands and pulling them away from his face. "I suggest you get these crazy thoughts out of your head, because they're not helping anyone. Trust me, I know it's not easy being looked up to as a leader and a hero. When you're captain of the track team *and* the gymnastics team, you end up with a *lot* of responsibility... And, yeah, it's hard. But you can't let the pressure get to you, because if you do, then everything that you've worked so hard to achieve is just going to come crashing down around you. My dad always used to tell me that no matter how bad a situation seems, there's always someone out there who's worse off that you could ever dream of being. So quit being so pessimistic and get back into that hero-Ranger mode that we all know and love!" She grinned and mock-punched his arm, and then her expression became frighteningly serious. "Because, even if we haven't found the way home yet, we *will*... somehow. We will."
He shook his head in disbelief. "You know, if your athletic career ever goes under, you'd make a great cheerleader..." Shaking off the light-hearted comment with a brief frown, he continued, finding himself unable to keep the incredulity from touching his voice. "But do you *really* believe that? I mean, really and honestly?"
"Yes." The word--only one small, unimportant syllable--was spoken with such fire, such intensity, such explosive passion, that it stole his breath to hear it, and as he looked into her dark eyes, he saw that they were burning with small tears, tears that he forced himself to keep from brushing away. "With all my heart and soul, I believe it."
Unable to respond, he simply stared at her for a few moments, struggling to find something to say that would equal her display of shameless and unadulterated power. "Wow." It was all that he could think of, and all that he felt able to say. "I... Well, how can I argue with that? Look, do me a favour? Remind me of this conversation the next time I start questioning myself..."
"Sure." Her gentle laughter was cut off by a yawn. "S'pose I'd better get back to bed before I pass out right here," she said, climbing to her feet. "I think Eric has the next watch... If he can be bothered to shift himself, he'll relieve you in an hour or so. I'll see you in the morning... And, whatever you do, don't lose your faith. Okay?"
"Uh huh. Goodnight," he murmured, already returning his attention to his task, namely to keep a look-out for intruders or any other signs of potential threat. It didn't occur to him until forty-five minutes later, when the smirking Cavalier came to take his place on guard, that he realised he hadn't thanked her. And so it was with a heavy heart and a mind heavily burdened with frighteningly profound thoughts that he found himself drifting into sleep, less than ten minutes after laying his head down.
He dreamed of home, of his parents, his carefree days as a simple teenager, the times he had spent worrying about nothing but grades and popularity. It was a disturbing dream, filled with fragmentary images that he was entirely unable to piece together, even upon waking; one moment, he saw his mother's smiling face, the next it was his father's angry cries echoing back to him from a time that Hank had hoped to forget--his one brush with the wrong side of the law, his one shame, his one downfall; cheating on a biology test. The images of his parent's faces were distorted somehow, though Hank found himself unable to figure out how or why; perhaps--and the concept made his dream-self sob with pain--the time spent alone and apart from his family had somehow twisted his memories. Seconds later, he found himself in school, along with his closest friends, discussing in high-pitched, excited voices their plans for the weekend... and the fateful trip to the amusement park. And then, just as he thought that the memories could not possibly become any more painful, there was Sheila; the rage and hatred in her beautiful tear-filled eyes as she accused him of being a traitor and, worse, a murderer, mingled with the pain and betrayal on Presto's innocent face as he believed her.
The sound of Eric's panicked scream wrenched him out of his nightmare with violent urgency. Groggy and still half-asleep, Hank leaped to his feet, reaching for his bow and scouting the immediate area for any sign of the terrified Cavalier. By the time he was able, in his partially delirious state, to pinpoint the origin of the frightened squeaks, the others were awake, and, as a unit, the five of them began running, weapons at the ready, towards the distant silhouette that was Eric.
As usual, the mouthy Cavalier had landed himself in trouble. He was huddled beneath the relative shade and protection of a small tree, cowering behind his magic shield and whimpering between desperate squeals as he stared open-mouthed at his latest attacker: a snarling, twenty-foot-tall armadillo. "Oh boy," sighed Bobby; the young Barbarian was already in the process of readying his club for the inevitable battle. "Eric's done it again!"
Grinning, Hank drew his bow, taking careful aim, then released a barrage of searing yellow energy bolts, which crackled slightly as they sliced through the air. They hit their target with perfect accuracy, as Hank knew they would, and exploded noisily upon impact with the armadillo's armour-plated body. The creature reared back, shaking its sand-coloured head in surprise at the unexpected noise, but appeared otherwise unaffected by the attack; it was only a matter of moments before it had once again returned its attention to the cowering Cavalier, who, in response, resumed his wailing.
"Damn!" cried Hank. "My arrows aren't doing anything. Its armour must be too thick." He looked around in desperate search for something else. "All right. Bobby, try your club. See if you can knock that thing off-balance or something. Anything that might give me the chance to get a shot through that thick armour, or give Eric the chance to make a run for it."
Bobby nodded. "Sure thing, Hank!" he cried, raising his club and smashing it to the ground with a power that still stole Hank's breath, in spite of the countless times he had witnessed it. The resulting earthquake almost knocked him off his feet, but, having learned to expect the violent tectonics that all-too-often were the results of Bobby's aggression, he had already steeled himself, and managed to maintain his equilibrium, albeit barely. The armadillo, by stark contrast, fell to its knees, taken by surprise by the sudden jolting of the ground, but regained its sense of balance almost as quickly as Hank had. Eric, upon seeing the limited effects of Bobby's rampage, staggered to his feet, and, moving against the pressure of the earthquake, made his way, with considerable effort, towards his companions; even as he collapsed panting at Bobby's feet, his eyes were inextricably focused on those of his pursuer.
"Nice of you to join us, Eric," Hank chuckled with a quick smile at the humiliated Cavalier, who merely looked up at him with the bitter annoyance that was almost as much a part of his character as the blue chain-mail and the windblown red cape. "Now let's *stop* that thing!"
Looking back up at the enraged armadillo, Hank saw that it was beginning to launch into a second attack, moving towards them with speed that was rather surprising, considering the weight of its armour. "Okay," Hank murmured softly, speaking almost to himself, as he consciously pushed aside his former doubts and concerns and focused solely on the task at hand. "Sheila, I want you to keep that thing occupied while me and Bobby move closer and try to break through that damned armour. Presto, use your hat to try and conjure up a spell that might slow it down a little. Diana, Eric, I need the two of you standing by to jump in if anything happens to Bobby or me. Everybody got that?"
He did not waste time waiting for their responses, knowing well enough that they would all be affirmative; instead, he turned to look at Bobby, forcing a confident grin to grace his features. Taking a deep breath and raising his club as an indication of his readiness, Bobby nodded solemnly, and as a unit, the two of them began to move towards the danger zone.
Using all of his self-control, Hank stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder as he heard Sheila calling out to the creature in an attempt to attract its attention. "Hey, you big lummox! You want a fight? Well, come and get it, big guy, because I'm right here!" Out of the corner of his eye, he was able to glimpse the bizarre flickering effects that enveloped her body for the briefest of moments as she pulled her cloak tightly around her; seconds later, she disappeared into thin air, much to Hank and Bobby's satisfaction, and the apparent annoyance of the armadillo, as evidenced by its furious howl.
Just as Hank had hoped, the creature kept its glowing jade-green eyes focused on the spot from which Sheila had vanished, leaving its defences down for Bobby's attack. Just as the boy hoisted his club into the air, readying it for yet another devastating blow, Sheila reappeared, several metres away from where she had previously been standing; in response, the armadillo released an outraged cry and lumbered towards her. Timing his blow perfectly, Bobby caught the creature in mid-step, sending it crashing to the ground; pausing briefly to give the boy and his sister a cheerful thumbs-up, Hank drew his bow, aiming his arrows for the tiny gaps that were visible between the armadillo's clashing armour plates.
The creature howled in pain, writhing on the ground, but, in what seemed to Hank to be an impossible act of revival, climbed back to its feet in a matter of moments, turning to face its attacker with blazing eyes and razor-sharp claws held at the ready. "Woah!" he cried in disbelief, backing slowly and carefully away. "Those were perfect shots! How did he recover so quickly?" Even as the words left his lips, the creature was almost on top of them, and, knowing that there was nothing that he or Bobby could do to properly defend themselves against such a powerful--and apparently unstoppable--monster, he stepped bravely in front of the helpless boy in a futile attempt to protect him from the inevitable, and courageously awaited the final reckoning.
*****
1) This fic takes place in the D&DC Realm, with little mention of the X-Men's home-world/dimension/whatever. Those of you who are unfamiliar with the D&D cartoon might find some parts a little confusing. I've tried to make it as comprehensible as possible, even to people who have never before seen the show, but there might still be bits that make little or no sense.
2) The X-Men in this fic are taken solely from the Fox series and not the comics, which I've only read in very small doses and not nearly enough to write a fic about. Consequently, there may be little character differences, so put them down to that. Also, (and I know I'm going to be flamed horribly for this) the characters of Rogue and Gambit use "I", "sugar", and "this" as opposed to their comic-book dialogues... surely everybody reading this knows they speak in Southern accents! Hopefully, this won't be too big an issue, but I figured I'd better warn you anyway. Oh yeah, and it is also based on the assumption that the X-Men have not yet met Apocalypse, so presumably takes place fairly early in the series.
3) The D&DC universe I've used is a little twisted. The story begins almost immediately after the end of the episode "The Box", but assumes that this episode occurs at the very end of the entire series (which I know it didn't, so humour me!), BUT also that the episode "The Dragon's Graveyard" never happened at all (still with me?). Obviously, if you've never seen either of these two episodes, then it really doesn't matter either way, but for those of you who know these episodes fairly well, that's the way you should be looking at it.
4) This was written mainly as a character-development driven fic, and consequently, there is a whole lot of angst (on the part of both fandoms). Consider yourself forewarned.
5) LEGAL DISCLAIMERS: In the making of this fic, I have owned only the ideas and storyline. Nothing else. The X-Men characters belong to Marvel. The D&DC characters belong to TSR. The £6, 000 phone bill that I am running up by posting this insanely long fic to the internet belongs to my loving father ;)
And finally, my most important word of advice to anyone who is still reading even after all that: read, enjoy, and please, please, please, give me some feedback!
Keep The Faith,
Your humble author, Super Lemmingo.
"THE QUINTESSENCE OF EVIL"
By Super Lemmingo
CHAPTER ONE -- "THE SUMMONING"
"Listen, Pretty Boy! I don't care how important Xavier said this so-called 'emergency' is! There's no *way* I'm going out in this kind of weather! We'll be blasted out of the sky in seconds!"
Scott 'Cyclops' Summers grinned and shook his head in mock-reprimand. "I must say I'm disappointed in you, Logan," he said, climbing into the pilot's seat of the sleek blue aircraft known as the Blackbird. "I never saw you as the type to be scared by a little thunder and lightning."
"A little thunder and lightning?" snarled Wolverine. "It's a goddamned hurricane! We don't stand a chance against this kind of goddamned weather! And don't give me that 'the Professor wouldn't ask us to do this if it wasn't important' speech of yours, 'cos it ain't gonna work!" He stood stubbornly outside the craft, arms crossed as he leaned against the door and watching Cyclops run through a quick system check. "Yer crazy if ya think you'll come back alive!"
Pushing past him with teenagerish impatience, Jubilation Lee--or simply 'Jubilee'--turned to smirk at him as she climbed up into the ship. "Aw, c'mon, Wimp!" she cried, jumping happily into the chair beside the already-seated Cajun, Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau. "We've been out in *way* worse weather than this! Be a man!"
"Watch your mouth, kid," Wolverine snarled in response.
From where she stood, calm and quiet as always, behind Gambit's seat, Ororo 'Storm' Munroe smiled gently at him. "Your concerns are misplaced, Logan," she said with her usual soft-spoken confidence. "The weather is no worse than anything we have experienced before. Our safety for the duration of the Professor's mission is guaranteed." Though she spoke directly to Logan, her eyes moved to take in all of her companions, reassuring each of them in turn.
"Yeah? Well, I never did trust the Weatherman," muttered Wolverine, moving to stand stoically beside her, and crossing his arms impatiently. "I swear, if we end up six feet under because of this, I'll kill every last one of you."
Beside Cyclops, Rogue laughed and turned to address him, a playful grin on her lips as she stretched lazily and shook her head in disgust. "Hey Logan, you gonna quit bein' a baby any time soon? 'Cos I don't know about you, but *I* just wanna get this thing over with." She winked and returned her attention to Scott. "Well, Cyke? Can we get going already?"
Scott nodded and revved the engine, and as they rose slowly into the air, Wolverine sighed wearily to himself, filled with an indescribable certainty that it was a suicide mission. He knew he was being irrational, but to be perfectly blunt, he didn't care; his instincts were honed well enough for him to have learned-albeit the hard way-to trust them. Growling, he rested his elbows on the back of Jubilee's seat and gazed forwards, eyes blank and unseeing. Why the hell couldn't the others see it? Certainly it was not like Professor Xavier to send so many of his strongest X-Men-*and* Jubilee-out to deal with a problem, no matter how much of an 'emergency' it was, and Logan's concern was doubled by the fact that Xavier had been willing to risk having the six of them all in the Blackbird under such undesirable--not to mention potentially lethal--weather conditions. Thinking about it, Logan silently decided that travelling the 2000+ miles to their destination on foot would have been safer than cramming all six of them into the small aircraft for what was to be a very bumpy ride. Still, who was he, one overly-anxious mutant, to argue with the unshakable logic of Charles Xavier and Scott Summers?
The others were talking, making idle conversation in an attempt to pass the time; a useless waste of effort that Wolverine had long ceased to participate in. Storm, Rogue, and Cyclops were discussing--in decidedly hushed voices, Logan noted--the enigmatic intricacies of their latest mission, the unknown details that Xavier had conveniently left out in his haste to send his students on their way as quickly as possible. Jubilee was talking animatedly to Remy, babbling excitedly in her usual juvenile manner; Gambit was listening with what was obviously only half an ear, nodding every few seconds but clearly not paying attention.
Wolverine sighed. Pathetic. Why couldn't they *ever* just sit and endure a journey in silence? Logan thrived on silence; he spent it thinking about the important things in life...namely, bloodshed and battle plans. He blocked out the droning buzz of his comrades' conversations, focusing on the situation that lay ahead; the Professor's instructions on the matter had been brief and, to a large degree, incomplete, but he had given Wolverine the impression that there would be cause for aggression. Frowning thoughtfully as he turned his attention to the howling winds that lashed against the window, Logan felt another twinge of nervous anxiety pulling at his gut; certainly, he would not have been caught dead participating in this obviously-doomed excursion had there *not* been the promise of violence.
Every minute or so, the Blackbird would jolt, shaken by the force of the winds that screamed all around them and the searing sheets of rain that buffeted them from all sides. Watching thoughtfully as the power of the elements struggled to ground the uneasily floating vessel, Logan released a soft groan. Storm and Jubilee were right; they had endured far more severe weather conditions than these, and survived without so much as a chip in the Blackbird's paint. So, if that was the case, as indeed it was, then why did the knot in Logan's stomach draw even tighter at the mere thought of the tempest that surrounded them?
One thing was certain, he knew-and it worried him even more to realise that the others appeared completely oblivious to this fact. This was no simple storm; though the elemental mutant of the same name seemed calm and at ease with the raging winds and screaming rain, Wolverine knew better. This was something far more serious, far more dangerous, and far more frightening.
A particularly explosive gust of wind crashed thunderously against the hull of the Blackbird, catching Logan off-balance, and, before he was fully aware of what had happened, he found himself staring helplessly at the floor as it rushed up towards him, until, with a resounding *CRACK*, he felt the sharp slap of humiliation as his face made painful contact with the unyielding ground. "Goddamn it!" he heard himself cursing as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Raising his head and staggering to his feet, he spun around in a perfect 360-degree circle, taking in every one of his companions with his steely gaze.
"Any one of you jokers make *one* comment about this, and ya won't live long enough to apologise for it," he growled, gripping the back of Jubilee's seat tightly in an attempt to mask his chagrin. "Y'understand me?"
Nodding, Scott quickly turned back to his consoles, suddenly focusing very hard on maintaining his course; still, Logan was certain he could see a smug grin crossing the Goody-Goody mutant's face as he turned away. Rogue gave a muffled cough and covered her face; Wolverine growled dangerously at the sounds of her suppressed giggles. Jubilee made no attempts to hide her laughter, but at least she had the decency to shut up when he shot her a warning glare. The damned Cajun was grinning, somehow managing to keep from laughing out loud; Wolverine glowered at him, but did not say anything. Storm smiled in that gentle way that she had, and placed a hand on his shoulder; outraged, he pushed her away, and returned bitterly to his musings.
"Logan," she said softly, intruding into his thoughts. "In order to prevent further...incident...may I suggest that you remain focused on our mission? I know that you are troubled and concerned, but please do not allow your discomfort to interfere with your ability to function. We shall need you when we reach our destination." She brushed his hand lightly with her own, and he found himself gazing submissively into those expressive African eyes.
"Y'mean *if* we reach our destination," he muttered coldly, forcing himself to turn away from her compassionate gaze. "And I'm not *concerned*, I just don't wanna be inside this bucket of bolts when it decides to blow. That so wrong?"
She shook her head, but said nothing further on the matter. Wolverine rolled his eyes at her and muttered harshly under his breath as she turned to stare thoughtfully out of the window. Still, in spite of his disgust at her advice, he did not allow his mind to wander again, instead remaining stoically focused on the bumps and jolts that rocked the Blackbird at increasingly frequent intervals.
Feeling another's eyes on him, Wolverine glanced around with primal rage, consciously keeping a wild fire blazing in his dark eyes. It took him a few moments to figure out that it was young Jubilee who was looking at him, wearing a smile so fraught with juvenile cockiness that he felt physically sickened by it. "What're you staring at, kid?" he demanded, scowling angrily down at her; even as the words left his curled lips, he regretted his harshness.
"You know, *Wolvie*," she said, smirking with that childish innocence that he found simultaneously endearing and outrageous. "In spite of what you may think, smiling actually doesn't kill you. Why don't you try it?"
Growling, he shook his head. "Maybe *smiling* doesn't kill you," he muttered coldly, once again feeling the bitterness of his own cruelty biting at his heart, "but being too damned carefree sure does. You might wanna water down that goddamned cheerful attitude of yours, kid, before it knocks you down for good." Forcing his lips to form something of a cannibalistic leer, he trapped her eyes with his most piercing and violating stare.
His stare had the desired effect; the wide-eyed grin dropped from her face, and she lowered her gaze. Under any normal circumstances, he would not have even considered addressing the girl in such a brusque manner, but something about the bad weather, the mysterious nature of the Professor's instructions, and the general air of 'wrong-ness' that permeated the entire area, had set him on edge, and he found himself unable to refrain from lashing out. Though he consciously regretted his harshness, he could not quite bring himself to apologise, and merely remained silent and solemn, and, more importantly, alone.
And so, finally freed from the prying insistence of his comrades, Logan returned his attention to the incessant whipping of the wind and the ceaseless wailing of the rain as they pounded against the side of the Blackbird. Gripping the back of Jubilee's chair even more tightly, and feeling the thing buckling slightly under the pressure of his fingers, he saw Storm stumbling forwards, having apparently lost her own grip on Gambit's seat. "Damn it, Summers!" he cursed, reaching out to steady her before she hit the ground. "Can't you control this goddamned thing any better? What happened to 'a little thunder and lightning'?"
Cyclops wasn't listening. He was staring at the skies ahead, open-mouthed and shocked into silence. Wolverine frowned at him, then followed his gaze, hearing a choked gasp from Rogue and a hushed cry from Jubilee as they too turned to see what it was that had struck Cyclops with such force. As he caught sight of it, Logan felt his chest tightening with pure, unbridled panic, and his throat clenched around his voice-box, the only thing keeping him from uttering blasphemous expletives as loudly as he could.
"By the Goddess..." whispered Storm, apparently the only one among them who had sustained her facilities for speech. "What is that?"
The skies were literally tearing themselves apart. At first glance, it seemed like the clouds were simply being blown by the force of the winds, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that this was not the case; they were being forced apart, and between the rolling swells of darkness appeared what could only be described as a 'hole' in the sky. It was long and wide, the pale yellow streaks of the outermost edges blurring and congealing to form a blood red diamond at the very centre of the indescribable 'thing'. The gleaming crimson orb seemed to pulse with some sort of supernatural power, and, much to Logan's surprise and concern, it appeared to be just about the same size as the Blackbird.
And, of course, they were heading straight towards it.
"Gambit never seen anything like *this* before," Remy murmured, speaking almost to himself. Wolverine paid the babbling Cajun no heed, preferring to focus his attention on the static Summers, who seemed completely incapable of moving, so transfixed was he by the bizarre void.
"Hey! Cyclops!" he yelled. "Come out of Daydream Land and steer us away from that thing! Whatever the hell it is, I don't think we wanna get too close to it, do you?"
Scott shook his head, momentarily back to his normal, unflappable self, hands already on the Blackbird's controls. "What the--?" he cried, panic overcoming his features once again as he wrestled with the console in front of him, pounding desperately at the control panel. "Nothing's happening! The controls aren't responding!"
"Damn it, Summers, this isn't the time to be jokin' around!" Wolverine heard himself shout, even though he knew full well that Scott would be the last to make any kind of joke, let alone one as dangerous and tasteless as this one would have been, had it indeed been a joke. Even before Cyclops turned to stare at him, he was aware of how idiotic the statement had been, but he found himself wondering what else there was to do in a situation as crazy as the one they suddenly found themselves in.
Jubilee had covered her face with her hands, but was peeking nervously through her fingers as the looming sunset-coloured vortex drifted ever closer to the doomed Blackbird. "We're heading straight towards it!" she wailed, voice made high-pitched by terror. "Will somebody please *do* something?"
"Too late for that, sugar!" cried Rogue, shielding her eyes from the searing orange glow. "Whatever that thing is, we're gonna hit it any second now!"
She was right. It was only a matter of moments before the blazing void enveloped the helpless Blackbird, and the moment it did, the world turned upside-down. Never in his life had Logan experienced such profound and frightening disorientation; it began as the walls and floor of the Blackbird began to disintegrate before his eyes, and only worsened as he suddenly found himself drifting and floating on a dull grey ocean of violent, invisible waves. Borne up by some unseen--and partially unfelt--force, Wolverine allowed himself to twist and roll, caught by each non-existent breaker as it engulfed and carried his body through an endless sea that consisted of nothing but air. It was vertiginous to say the least.
Glancing across at his comrades, he saw that they too were caught in a bizarre, suspended free-fall, held up by these unseen waves that simultaneously did not exist and had the strength to keep them afloat in a seemingly infinity galaxy of absolute nothingness.
Cyclops was drifting, posture tense as he struggled to maintain some sense of identity in this plane of obvious chaos; Logan smiled at his unquestionably doomed endeavour to supply a degree of rationality to this insane situation. Storm had her eyes closed and her fists tightly clenched in what appeared to be some form of meditation; Wolverine knew better than to try and address her when she was in that kind of state. In stark contrast, Jubilee had wrapped her arms around herself, and was whimpering softly; Logan shook his head at the child-like way in which she felt forced to express her terror, but he found himself unable to state his distaste aloud, partially due to his own uncomfortable paralysis. Even Rogue seemed actively affected by this unusual new reality; her face was pale and her jaw clenched, but, like Cyclops and Wolverine himself, had the strength not to express her discomfort. Gambit was staring straight ahead, and his eyes were very wide as he spasmodically clenched and unclenched his fists; Logan winced as he saw the Cajun rolling head over heels on several occasions, thrown around by some unseen force.
Time became an abstract concept. There was no way of knowing for certain whether it had been minutes, months, or millennia since the Blackbird had dissolved, but as he squinted into the dark abyss that seemed to go on for eternity in all directions, Logan suddenly became aware of a tiny pinpoint of light, a point of light that was growing larger at an alarming rate. It only took a very short time--or, what Logan could only assume was a short time--to realise that it was in fact starlight.
Before Logan had the chance to find his voice and inform the others of this development, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was no longer being held up. As he felt his body beginning its sharp descent towards a ground that seemed miles away--and had certainly *not* been below them moments ago--he glanced up at the stars that glittered so brightly above him, and realised that the constellations he was staring at were completely alien in nature, a fact which made his head spin even more than the sickening speed at which he suddenly found himself plummeting towards the ground.
Somehow landing on his feet, Wolverine whirled around, watching as his companions hit the ground beside him. Gambit and Jubilee crashed to the floor, landing in an unpleasant tangle of flailing arms and legs; Rogue kept herself from hitting the ground, using her flying power to hover a few feet above the rustling yellow grass; Cyclops and Storm, like Logan, managed to land on their feet, and stood, frowning with undisguised curiosity at the strange new world in which they found themselves, a world that looked shockingly like a moonlit Savannah.
"Greetings."
Extending his claws on reflex, Wolverine spun full circle in an attempt to identify what manner of creature had spoken to him. It took a few seconds for him to see the tiny old man who stood at his feet, a wise and good-natured smile on his wrinkled face. "Who're you?" he snarled dangerous, not retracting his claws.
The old man chuckled softly, and shook his head. "Be patient, my friend," he said smoothly. "You may wish to sit down, for what I must speak of may be difficult for you to comprehend." He gestured invitingly towards the vast expanse of crackling grass that surrounded them, eyes twinkling kindly.
"I don't think so," said Jubilee with a smirk. "You're talking to guys who take on crazy humans and psycho mutants every day. I don't think whatever you have to say will surprise us too bad, do you?" She flashed her eyes at him, and he shook his head in response, seating himself on a soft patch of grass.
"I suppose you are correct," he said thoughtfully. "My name, as far as you need to know, is DungeonMaster. I will be your guide and advisor while you are in this Realm. Now, I am sure you are wondering how you came to be here. The answer, in as much as you need to know of it, is very simple: I brought you here, because your extraordinary powers are needed to help six pupils of mine to fight a great and deadly evil. Now, you must understand the importance of your role here; certainly, I would not have been so rash as to create a portal under such easily-observable conditions had your immediate presence here not been of utmost urgency. Ideally, I would have preferred to wait until you were many miles away from what you call 'civilisation', but I am afraid that a concealing blanket of cloud will have to suffice as protection from others of your kind."
"Excuse me, sir," said Scott, ever the diplomat. "But what do you mean?"
"Forgive me," the old man replied. "It is of little importance. Know only that you are here now, and, if my precautions were adequate--as well they should be--nobody from your world is aware of your disappearance. Now, as for your purpose here... A terrible evil has pervaded the Realm, and I fear that my young pupils will be unable to challenge its sinister tendrils of corruption. You must help them to vanquish this..." he paused, "this malevolence, or the Realm and all of its inhabitants will be hopelessly doomed. The Force of Evil known as Venger has--in ways that remain a mystery, even to one as knowledgeable as myself--obtained an enormous amount of power, such that truly makes me fear for the safety of all that I have created. If he is not stopped, he will destroy the Realm, and with it, all that is pure and good."
Wolverine growled, but somehow kept himself from saying anything out loud. Thankfully, the thick-skulled Cajun Gambit opened his mouth first, meaning that, for the time being at least, Logan would be able to keep his disdain to himself. "Gambit not sure that makes sense," he said very quietly. "It sound like this be your problem. What it have to do with us? We don't live in this 'Realm', so why you askin' *us* to defend it for you?" He frowned curiously at the old man.
"You must understand, my friends," DungeonMaster said very softly. "Without your help, we are doomed. I chose to summon *you* because you are all pure of heart and of righteous nature. I believe that you, with your powers, will be able to help my pupils vanquish the Force of Evil, and I am certain that you will be willing to help us. Of course, if you are truly heartless, I will return you to your universe, secure in the knowledge that you have sentenced an entire World to death." He paused again, taking a breath. "You see, I *know* you, every one of you. Cyclops, Rogue, Gambit, Storm, Jubilee, Wolverine. I know you, and I know that you will not leave us to fight a hopeless battle alone."
Cyclops sighed, and Wolverine could see the idiotic group leader was already beginning to weaken. "How do you know us?" he asked. "How do you know what's in our hearts, and what we think?"
DungeonMaster chuckled, but did not say anything. Wolverine felt his blood beginning to boil. "Damn it, Mister!" he cried. "Ya can't just drag us here against our will and demand that we fight your battles for you! And if *that* weren't bad enough, now yer tryin' to play the guilt trip on us! Well, it ain't gonna work, buddy. I don't fall for no goddamned sob stories!"
"You must understand, Logan," the old man said, never once raising his voice. "I am desperate. Never before has this Realm been a victim of such pure and unbridled power. Please realise that, had the situation been different, I would not have summoned you here." He met Wolverine's sceptical eyes, and the headstrong mutant felt his body being struck at a physical level by the painful-and somewhat embarrassing-sight of tears welling in those wise depths.
"Fine!" he growled after a few terse moments, turning with bitter rage to scowl at Cyclops and the others. "But I ain't happy about this!"
*****
The jagged protrusion of rock was the perfect lookout spot, and as the handsome young Ranger stood atop it, proud and strong in his solitude, the cold wind whipping through his clothes, he felt a harsh jolt of nostalgia twisting around his heart. With a bitter sigh, he sat down on the weathered surface of the rock, waiting patiently for the flood of emotion to overwhelm him. He had been expecting it; in fact, it was rather overdue. These explosions of hopelessness and melancholy always seemed to know exactly when to reach him, and it always seemed to happen when he was alone, standing guard during these long and lonely nights while his five friends caught up on some much-needed sleep.
He always volunteered to take the first watch, preferring to endure this frightening roller-coaster of emotions as soon after nightfall as possible. It would be a good few hours before one of the others relieved him of his tedious duty. While he waited, keeping half an eye out for any signs of danger, he allowed the pestilent doubt to devour him; finally, after so many long and endless months spent wandering helplessly around the Realm, he was starting to tire.
There was no denying that things had changed. At one point, the mere thought of being trapped forever in this upside-down world had been laughable; his passionate optimism coupled with his friends' devoted trust in his leadership skills had once meant that the idea was simply not an option. As time had passed, though, and the days became weeks and months, their faith had dwindled, and with it, his previously unshakable confidence in DungeonMaster to guide them towards that eternally ambiguous portal. And now... Well, even in light of all this, he found himself unable to entirely give up hope, but he was unquestionably finding it more and more difficult to offer the heroic wisdom and courage that he knew the others sorely needed. He cared deeply for each and every one of them, and it was this almost paternal dedication to ensuring their well-being that, at times, was the only thing that kept him going.
The reason for this particular bout of self-loathing and depression was clear. Yet another fouled-up chance to return to the world they called home. Yet another screw-up on his part. Yet another example to add to his list of reasons why he should have handed his leadership over to Eric the cocky Cavalier. He knew, deep inside, that this latest failed attempt to reach their home-world was no more his fault than any of the countless other lost chances, but that reassuring jewel of knowledge did little to console him as he stood, alone and miserable, and considered their latest heartbreaking adventure.
It had seemed so perfect, as they all did, at first. DungeonMaster had instructed them to free an old friend of his, a Sorceress named Zandora, who had been trapped inside an inescapable alien world; Sheila had been the first to observe the parallel between Zandora's situation and their own. Still, tempted by the promise of a possible way home, Hank had led the others on a hazardous adventure in an attempt to free the helpless Sorceress. Having achieved their goal, and been offered in return the portal that they sought with such feverish desperation, the untimely appearance of Venger, the infamous Force of Evil, in yet another attempt to capture the Young Ones and their magical weapons, had almost resulted in the destruction of both the Realm and the Earth; through a painful--and almost predictable--twist of fate, Hank and the others had been able to defeat the villainous demon... at the cost of destroying the portal that could have taken them home. Again.
The blow had been devastating to all of them, but Hank had felt that this latest failure was a suggestion of some sort, a suggestion that *he* was doing something wrong. Perhaps his priorities were not correct, perhaps going home *was* more important than doing what he knew was the right and heroic thing. Perhaps being a hero-achieving the renowned status that he had spent his entire life searching for with such unspoken intensity--*wasn't* the most important factor any more. He knew that Eric in particular had become tired of his inherent lawful attitude, and he couldn't help but wonder if the others were beginning to share the Cavalier's undeniably contagious point of view.
"Hank?"
Upon hearing the sound of his name spoken aloud, he lowered himself into a fighting stance, drawing his bow and aiming it directly at the silhouette that slid stealthily through the shadows towards him. He recognised immediately the sympathetic smile of his friend Diana, and lowered his weapon, though the discomfort at his inexcusable jumpiness stayed with him for a long while. "Hey," he said in an attempt to disguise his internal conflict. "It's not your watch yet, is it?"
She chuckled softly and shook her head. "No. Couldn't sleep, I guess. Besides--" she paused, offering him that reassuring grin that he knew so well "--you were thinking so loud, I'm surprised anyone could sleep through it." Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she moved to sit beside him. "You want to talk about it?"
"No, I'm all right," he said, silently cursing his innate pride and need to keep things to himself. "It's nothing that won't sort itself out eventually." He knew that he was lying, and judging by the scepticism on her face, she knew it as well.
She nodded empathetically and squeezed his shoulder, but did not say anything. Hank sighed, resting his head in his hands. They sat there for a few long minutes, during which time neither of them spoke; this new silence, however, was far from the hollow emptiness that it had been previously, during his solitude. It was a comforting silence, and he allowed the purity of her unspoken assurances to wash over him as they sat together under the sky; in a way that none of his other friends could possibly equal, Diana was able to offer him the solace that he, as an unwilling leader, needed so desperately.
Eventually, he broke the silence, hearing the sound of his own voice reverberating strangely through the chill air long before he was aware of having spoken. "Do you trust me?" he asked in a choked, pained whisper.
"Trust you?" she repeated.
He nodded, removing her hand from his shoulder and gripping it tightly in his own. "Do you trust me?" he said again, stressing each and every word. "I mean, really trust me. To keep up this pretence of being a great leader, to steer us in the right direction, *to get us home*?"
"Yes," she said, without a moment's hesitation. "And it's not a pretence. You *are* a great leader, and everyone knows it, even Eric... although he'd never admit it. Nobody else could have taken us through half the crazy stuff you've led us through. Nobody. We all know it, and we all believe in you, but *you* have to believe in yourself, because if you can't trust your own skills and judgement, how do you expect the rest of us to trust you?" She paused, gazing into his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're losing faith. You *can't*. We need your strength, your energy, your leadership. We need *you*, Hank, and the last thing we need right now is for you to give up on yourself."
He glared at her, feeling the fire of his emotion beginning to break to the surface. "I'm not giving up!" he cried angrily, struggling to keep his voice down, as he became aware of the soft snores of Eric and the others. "It's just...well, I *haven't* gotten us home yet, and to be honest, I haven't done much of anything--well, except for listening to what DungeonMaster has told us...and anyone could do that. All I've done is given you guys reasons *not* to go home when we had the chance." He released her hand and covered his face. "And if I'm not the one to blame, then there's only one person who is, and that's DungeonMaster." He did not raise his head, but could feel her shock at the implication he was aiming at. "And if *he's* the one we can't trust, then what do you suggest we do?"
She glared at him. "This is what I suggest." She spoke softly, taking his hands and pulling them away from his face. "I suggest you get these crazy thoughts out of your head, because they're not helping anyone. Trust me, I know it's not easy being looked up to as a leader and a hero. When you're captain of the track team *and* the gymnastics team, you end up with a *lot* of responsibility... And, yeah, it's hard. But you can't let the pressure get to you, because if you do, then everything that you've worked so hard to achieve is just going to come crashing down around you. My dad always used to tell me that no matter how bad a situation seems, there's always someone out there who's worse off that you could ever dream of being. So quit being so pessimistic and get back into that hero-Ranger mode that we all know and love!" She grinned and mock-punched his arm, and then her expression became frighteningly serious. "Because, even if we haven't found the way home yet, we *will*... somehow. We will."
He shook his head in disbelief. "You know, if your athletic career ever goes under, you'd make a great cheerleader..." Shaking off the light-hearted comment with a brief frown, he continued, finding himself unable to keep the incredulity from touching his voice. "But do you *really* believe that? I mean, really and honestly?"
"Yes." The word--only one small, unimportant syllable--was spoken with such fire, such intensity, such explosive passion, that it stole his breath to hear it, and as he looked into her dark eyes, he saw that they were burning with small tears, tears that he forced himself to keep from brushing away. "With all my heart and soul, I believe it."
Unable to respond, he simply stared at her for a few moments, struggling to find something to say that would equal her display of shameless and unadulterated power. "Wow." It was all that he could think of, and all that he felt able to say. "I... Well, how can I argue with that? Look, do me a favour? Remind me of this conversation the next time I start questioning myself..."
"Sure." Her gentle laughter was cut off by a yawn. "S'pose I'd better get back to bed before I pass out right here," she said, climbing to her feet. "I think Eric has the next watch... If he can be bothered to shift himself, he'll relieve you in an hour or so. I'll see you in the morning... And, whatever you do, don't lose your faith. Okay?"
"Uh huh. Goodnight," he murmured, already returning his attention to his task, namely to keep a look-out for intruders or any other signs of potential threat. It didn't occur to him until forty-five minutes later, when the smirking Cavalier came to take his place on guard, that he realised he hadn't thanked her. And so it was with a heavy heart and a mind heavily burdened with frighteningly profound thoughts that he found himself drifting into sleep, less than ten minutes after laying his head down.
He dreamed of home, of his parents, his carefree days as a simple teenager, the times he had spent worrying about nothing but grades and popularity. It was a disturbing dream, filled with fragmentary images that he was entirely unable to piece together, even upon waking; one moment, he saw his mother's smiling face, the next it was his father's angry cries echoing back to him from a time that Hank had hoped to forget--his one brush with the wrong side of the law, his one shame, his one downfall; cheating on a biology test. The images of his parent's faces were distorted somehow, though Hank found himself unable to figure out how or why; perhaps--and the concept made his dream-self sob with pain--the time spent alone and apart from his family had somehow twisted his memories. Seconds later, he found himself in school, along with his closest friends, discussing in high-pitched, excited voices their plans for the weekend... and the fateful trip to the amusement park. And then, just as he thought that the memories could not possibly become any more painful, there was Sheila; the rage and hatred in her beautiful tear-filled eyes as she accused him of being a traitor and, worse, a murderer, mingled with the pain and betrayal on Presto's innocent face as he believed her.
The sound of Eric's panicked scream wrenched him out of his nightmare with violent urgency. Groggy and still half-asleep, Hank leaped to his feet, reaching for his bow and scouting the immediate area for any sign of the terrified Cavalier. By the time he was able, in his partially delirious state, to pinpoint the origin of the frightened squeaks, the others were awake, and, as a unit, the five of them began running, weapons at the ready, towards the distant silhouette that was Eric.
As usual, the mouthy Cavalier had landed himself in trouble. He was huddled beneath the relative shade and protection of a small tree, cowering behind his magic shield and whimpering between desperate squeals as he stared open-mouthed at his latest attacker: a snarling, twenty-foot-tall armadillo. "Oh boy," sighed Bobby; the young Barbarian was already in the process of readying his club for the inevitable battle. "Eric's done it again!"
Grinning, Hank drew his bow, taking careful aim, then released a barrage of searing yellow energy bolts, which crackled slightly as they sliced through the air. They hit their target with perfect accuracy, as Hank knew they would, and exploded noisily upon impact with the armadillo's armour-plated body. The creature reared back, shaking its sand-coloured head in surprise at the unexpected noise, but appeared otherwise unaffected by the attack; it was only a matter of moments before it had once again returned its attention to the cowering Cavalier, who, in response, resumed his wailing.
"Damn!" cried Hank. "My arrows aren't doing anything. Its armour must be too thick." He looked around in desperate search for something else. "All right. Bobby, try your club. See if you can knock that thing off-balance or something. Anything that might give me the chance to get a shot through that thick armour, or give Eric the chance to make a run for it."
Bobby nodded. "Sure thing, Hank!" he cried, raising his club and smashing it to the ground with a power that still stole Hank's breath, in spite of the countless times he had witnessed it. The resulting earthquake almost knocked him off his feet, but, having learned to expect the violent tectonics that all-too-often were the results of Bobby's aggression, he had already steeled himself, and managed to maintain his equilibrium, albeit barely. The armadillo, by stark contrast, fell to its knees, taken by surprise by the sudden jolting of the ground, but regained its sense of balance almost as quickly as Hank had. Eric, upon seeing the limited effects of Bobby's rampage, staggered to his feet, and, moving against the pressure of the earthquake, made his way, with considerable effort, towards his companions; even as he collapsed panting at Bobby's feet, his eyes were inextricably focused on those of his pursuer.
"Nice of you to join us, Eric," Hank chuckled with a quick smile at the humiliated Cavalier, who merely looked up at him with the bitter annoyance that was almost as much a part of his character as the blue chain-mail and the windblown red cape. "Now let's *stop* that thing!"
Looking back up at the enraged armadillo, Hank saw that it was beginning to launch into a second attack, moving towards them with speed that was rather surprising, considering the weight of its armour. "Okay," Hank murmured softly, speaking almost to himself, as he consciously pushed aside his former doubts and concerns and focused solely on the task at hand. "Sheila, I want you to keep that thing occupied while me and Bobby move closer and try to break through that damned armour. Presto, use your hat to try and conjure up a spell that might slow it down a little. Diana, Eric, I need the two of you standing by to jump in if anything happens to Bobby or me. Everybody got that?"
He did not waste time waiting for their responses, knowing well enough that they would all be affirmative; instead, he turned to look at Bobby, forcing a confident grin to grace his features. Taking a deep breath and raising his club as an indication of his readiness, Bobby nodded solemnly, and as a unit, the two of them began to move towards the danger zone.
Using all of his self-control, Hank stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder as he heard Sheila calling out to the creature in an attempt to attract its attention. "Hey, you big lummox! You want a fight? Well, come and get it, big guy, because I'm right here!" Out of the corner of his eye, he was able to glimpse the bizarre flickering effects that enveloped her body for the briefest of moments as she pulled her cloak tightly around her; seconds later, she disappeared into thin air, much to Hank and Bobby's satisfaction, and the apparent annoyance of the armadillo, as evidenced by its furious howl.
Just as Hank had hoped, the creature kept its glowing jade-green eyes focused on the spot from which Sheila had vanished, leaving its defences down for Bobby's attack. Just as the boy hoisted his club into the air, readying it for yet another devastating blow, Sheila reappeared, several metres away from where she had previously been standing; in response, the armadillo released an outraged cry and lumbered towards her. Timing his blow perfectly, Bobby caught the creature in mid-step, sending it crashing to the ground; pausing briefly to give the boy and his sister a cheerful thumbs-up, Hank drew his bow, aiming his arrows for the tiny gaps that were visible between the armadillo's clashing armour plates.
The creature howled in pain, writhing on the ground, but, in what seemed to Hank to be an impossible act of revival, climbed back to its feet in a matter of moments, turning to face its attacker with blazing eyes and razor-sharp claws held at the ready. "Woah!" he cried in disbelief, backing slowly and carefully away. "Those were perfect shots! How did he recover so quickly?" Even as the words left his lips, the creature was almost on top of them, and, knowing that there was nothing that he or Bobby could do to properly defend themselves against such a powerful--and apparently unstoppable--monster, he stepped bravely in front of the helpless boy in a futile attempt to protect him from the inevitable, and courageously awaited the final reckoning.
*****