CHAPTER EIGHT -- "THE LOSS OF INNOCENCE"
Hank was staring blindly at DungeonMaster, eyes wide and mouth half-open as he struggled to take in the true depth of what the old man was saying. Presto shook his head slightly at the betrayal and disbelief on his one-time hero and leader's face; this mission had evidently shattered the Ranger's previously unshakable will, and, as he thought about the consequences of this frightening implication, Presto knew that he should be sharing his friend's pain. He, more so than any of the others, had experience with wounded psyches and crushed confidence, yet as he gazed at the turmoil pasted so clearly across the heroic Ranger's stoic features, he could not muster even the faintest trace of pity.
After all that they had been through in the Realm, the six Young Ones had developed deep, unbreakable bonds with each other, and Presto found himself markedly discomfited by the lack of empathy that he felt as he gazed at Hank's pathetically tear-streaked face. Instead of concern about his long-time friend's state of mind, he felt little more than bitter contempt for the Ranger's inexcusable weakness. He, the cowardly one, the one renowned for screwing up, the loser, had not broken down; what gave Hank the right to? Disgust gave way to anger. Hank was the strong one, the hero, the backbone of the group. How dare he lose control like this? How *dare* he?
Rolling his eyes, Presto looked away from his crumbling leader, turning to the new object of his idolisation, the primal mutant known as Wolverine. There was no question over *his* sanity, no lingering qualms regarding *his* state of mind; admittedly, it seemed that he did experience occasional 'difficulties' in controlling his predatory instincts, but the more the young Magician thought about it, the more he realised that this was a small price to pay for being a *real* hero. As Presto thought back to his previous conversation with the animalistic mutant, he suddenly found himself realising just how deeply Logan's brusque words had inspired him, and, looking back to his broken leader, he was, by direct contrast able to recall nothing more than questions, and, more specifically, questions that Hank himself had posed and been unable to answer. Some hero!
After spending his entire pre-Realm life as little more than a ridiculous joke, and enduring the full brunt of Eric's barbs for the duration of their time in the Realm, Presto was sick of being the victim.
Wolverine was strong and emotionless, brave and aggressive, wild and free. To be blunt, he was everything that Presto had always dreamed of being, but had lacked the courage to strive for. Though he had realised at the time that Logan's speech had touched him at a level far beyond his comprehension, Presto had not, until the moment Hank broke down, fully understood just how significant that depth was. He had, quite simply, had enough. Enough sitting around and wondering what *else* was going to go wrong in their latest 'quest'. Enough waiting for the Ranger to come up with yet another plan that might--if they were lucky--provide them with a dwindling glimpse of the world that they called home. Enough failure. It was time for *him* to take charge, to prove to his friends, to the X-Men, and, most importantly, to his new hero, that he *did* have what it took to be truly Great.
He smiled, looking around at his companions. Cyclops and Diana were frowning at DungeonMaster, murmuring useless words at him in an attempt to convince him to seek some alternative solution; the former was tense and subdued, the latter animated and furious, and, in Presto's opinion, both as superfluous as each other. Storm had fallen silent, apparently aware of the futility of further attempts at reasonable argument; Presto nodded thoughtfully, mentally applauding her wisdom. Gambit and Sheila were embracing; with a bitter chuckle, Presto recognised the hug as one of consolation rather than passion. The sweet-talking Cajun was merely offering the young Thief--and to some extent, Presto guessed, himself as well--a moment away from the torture of the act that they were being ordered to commit. Eric was cowering behind his shield; Presto shook his head in disbelief at the Cavalier's ludicrous wails. It was obvious that there was no immediate danger--with the possible exception of Rogue's still-raging powers--yet Eric foolishly refused to acknowledge this simple fact. It was truly pathetic. Bobby and Jubilee were clinging to each other, visibly out of their depth in this moment of adult confrontation; Presto took the briefest of moments to direct a spark of pity towards the youngest members of the group, grateful once again that, thanks to Wolverine's remarkable inspirational powers, he no longer considered himself as numbered among those weak enough to be moved by such paradigms as good and evil, life and death.
And, in a juxtaposition that made his head spin, the violent mutant Wolverine was smiling calmly-indeed, smiling and not sneering!-while Hank stumbled backwards, wild-eyed panic pervading his once-stoic features. The transformation struck Presto with full force at that moment, as he realised for the first time just how seriously this ordeal had affected the Ranger, yet still, he found himself unable to summon even a shard of sympathy. Instead, he used what remained of his strength to emulate Logan's contented grin.
"You must destroy him," DungeonMaster repeated, enunciating carefully. "Now."
Hank shook his head, falling once again to his knees. "I can't."
Wolverine laughed. "Then *I* will." He raised his claws. "This trash has gone on long enough." He roared, looking around one last time, in expectation of some form of resistance; whether from Hank, Cyclops, or indeed, DungeonMaster, Presto could not be certain. As he gazes around at his companions, the Magician was stunned by the total lack of response to the mutant's outburst; it seemed, for a moment at least, that Logan too was surprised by the lack of argument with his decision, as he paused for several seconds before plunging his adamantium weapons downwards.
In spite of his vows to remain strong, Presto found himself entirely unable to watch this act of unchecked violence. As he averted his eyes, he could hear the bloodthirsty cry leaving Wolverine's lips, as well as the horrified groan escaping Hank's. And, as the sounds imprinted themselves forever upon his brain, he suddenly, for the first time since meeting the real-life comic-book characters, began to question his choice of heroes.
The Quintessence made no noise as Wolverine ended his reign of terror, and Presto felt an overwhelming pressure holding itself down upon his brain. The silence was too loud, too surreal. It was unnatural. He managed to remain upright as he watched the life ebbing away from the creature that had crushed their hopes and dreams so often and so effectively; the simple act of holding himself on his feet, in its pure simplicity, spoke volumes about his inner strength, and, as he gazed around at his friends, he noted that they were not so strong. Sheila had slipped into a semi-consciousness state of delirium, and lay once again in Gambit's arms, moaning softly to herself; her brother was sitting on the frozen ground, Jubilee's hand on his shoulder, sobbing quietly. Eric was huddled behind his shield, and Presto wondered whether he was even aware of the fact that whatever he was protecting himself from was now deceased. Even the pillar of strength Diana was staggering, keeping herself upright solely through the support of her javelin. And Hank... Hank was little more than a quivering mass of flesh, inarticulate and scared as a child. Never in his entire life had Presto seen anything so pitiful.
"Hank..." he heard himself murmuring softly. "My God... Hank..."
DungeonMaster had moved to the Ranger's side, and was gripping his arms tightly. "My son," he said gently. "I am truly sorry that you were forced to endure this. Please believe me when I say that if any other way were possible--"
"Believe you?" Hank cried, jerking his head up. His eyes were filled with an intensity that Presto had never before seen, and, despite his new courageous self, the Magician found himself genuinely frightened by it. "How can I believe you? After everything you've taught us, everything you've done for us? After all we've been through, all those times when it seemed like all was lost, but *your* riddles, *your* words of wisdom kept us from doing something stupid... from doing something like this!" His entire body was trembling as he tore his arms away from the old man's fragile grip. "Don't touch me. Don't even talk to me. I *never* want to hear you, see you, or speak to you again. We'll find the way home by ourselves, without your help. Go away."
DungeonMaster took a breath, apparently speechless. Presto took a step forwards, part of his old self wishing fervently for everything to stop and life to return to its normal unpredictable state; before he even had a chance to open his mouth, however, he felt Wolverine's hand on his shoulder and, as he looked up at the wild mutant, seeing in his burning eyes the deep, unspoken regret of forced murder, he sighed and stilled his aching heart. He would be strong, he would be emotionless.
"My pupils..." whispered the old man, voice tight.
"I think Hank has made himself perfectly clear," said Diana very quietly; her face was blank as she knelt by the shattered Ranger, and wrapped her arms around him. "Leave us alone. Your advice is no longer needed or welcome." She paused, gazing from Hank's muffled devastation, to Sheila's drowsy delirium, to Bobby's soft weeping, to Eric's panicked whimpers, to Presto's own unnatural stoicism, and finally back to DungeonMaster. "How could you do this to us?" she asked. "How could you bring us here, put us through so much in such a short time... only to demand that we just throw away our feelings, our morals... to throw away everything you've taught us since we arrived here... and *kill* someone? Bobby's only ten years old, for crying out loud... how could you expose him to such horror, such pain, such--" she broke off, unable to continue. "Forget it. What's the damned point?"
Presto closed his eyes. So much, so fast... All of a sudden, he wanted to break down and cry. He no longer wished to be cold, strong, and emotionless. He just wanted to be mortal, to feel the pain and regret that pasted itself across Diana's face and wracked Hank's body with violent sobs. But he couldn't. He had come too far. He could not feel. Wolverine would be very proud, he knew, but the realisation struck him as something of a bittersweet victory. With the crisis resolved, the X-Men would be returned to their world, he knew, thus leaving Presto and his friends in the Realm, completely alone for the first time, without even the fragmentary shards of advice offered by the helplessly pleading man who knelt desperately before his hating pupils.
Wolverine would soon be gone, lost to the inevitable pull of his own distant home, but his vicious heartlessness would live on in Presto's own heart and this, even more than the sickening realisation of what he and his friends had just witnessed at the growling mutant's hands, frightened the Magician beyond all consolation. He had become hardened. He had become like the one who had ruthlessly cut down a living, breathing individual. He had become like his hero.
The X-Men remained politely distant as the Young Ones came to terms with what they had just been a part of. Though he did not know very much about the fictional world from which the mutants had originated, he knew that they had witnessed their share of death and destruction, and to ruthlessly cut down an evil adversary would not be unusual to them. How could they, who had spent their entire lives in a world filled with prejudice and hatred, fully comprehend the loss of innocence forced upon the likes of Hank and Bobby? It was fairly obvious, even to Presto, that they could not; still, as he watched, Storm, Cyclops and the others moved to comfort their young counterparts, offering soft-spoken words of sympathy and encouragement, he found himself beginning to momentarily question the validity of the premature observation. Certainly, it seemed, the burning empathy in Jubilee's eyes as she embraced Bobby, and the heart-wrenching agony in Gambit's as he held Sheila with accustomed tenderness and gazed at the still-shrieking form of Rogue, that they could genuinely understand the torment of those who they sought so desperately to comfort. For several long minutes, Presto stood and watched, totally dumbstruck, as his friends allowed themselves to be comforted by comic-book characters.
Despite his desire to be strong and heroic, the Magician could not entirely conceal the bubbling heat of jealousy that welled up within him as he observed his new hero Wolverine moving to approach none other than the loud-mouthed and obnoxious Eric. For a minute--and no longer--Presto was overwhelmed with anger and pain at being so completely ignored by the object of his immature hero-worship, but scant seconds later he realised, with no small degree of pride, that, for his latest guru to so willingly abandon his would-be protege, the Wizard would have to appear--on the outside, at least--to be coping well enough by himself.
Or so he liked to think.
"Hey, kid," Logan said, moving to crouch beside the terrified Cavalier. "You okay?"
Eric looked up from behind his shield, scowling at the mutant. "Yeah, I'm fine!" he muttered, and his voice wobbled a little. "Takes more than a little..." he coughed uneasily, and his poorly-manufactured facade of courage faltered, "...to scare *this* Cavalier!" He forced a grin, and Presto was struck--almost physically--by the tremulous, artificial nature of the smirk. Upon closer inspection, though, it became apparent that the 'smirk' was in fact nothing more than a pained grimace, a badly-disguised attempt to mask the agony within--the selfsame agony that brutally tore apart the rest of his friends, yet completely failed to sustain even the most tenuous grasp upon the wimpy Magician for more than a fragmentary moment.
What had he become? Even Logan appeared faintly disturbed by what he had been forced to do, but Presto himself, the one with possibly the greatest reason to collapse under the pressure--the coward--was unable to summon any form of emotion. It was as if his mind had simply ceased to function and his feelings had shut themselves down, refusing to surface even as he sank to his knees and begged them to. He was nothing, a mere empty husk, no more than flesh and blood. He was--and the implications of this realisation caused his unfulfilled desire to think, hurt, and *feel*, to become even more violent--only marginally more human than the broken Quintessence, the one who would never again rise to his majestic feet.
It was several painful minutes later, just as Presto finally felt the infinite barrier that surrounded his emotions begin, ever so slightly, to crumble beneath the force of his will--allowing him for the briefest of instants to taste that harsh, inconsolable agony that so tortured his friends--that Rogue's deafening screams finally silenced.
*****
Storm gazed at the chaos around her, and struggled to remain calm. As the Quintessence had died, so too, it seemed, had all sense of rationality, and the unbridled insanity that had ensued upon his destruction shook her to her very soul. She knelt silently beside Hank, gazing with undisguised anguish at the tormented spasms that racked his body, and shaking her head sadly; for what could she, a mere mortal, do or say to relieve the suffering that was the Loss of Innocence?
Crouching on the other side of the Ranger's sobbing form, the young Acrobat Diana still held him, comforting him through touch, without the use of words. Storm moved to do the same, and as she did so, the other pulled back, nodding gratefully as the sympathetic mutant took her place; at the same time, Cyclops, ever quietly compassionate, gripped the girl's trembling shoulders with the unspoken empathy characteristic of all great leaders. It seemed, Storm mused as she embraced the shattered Ranger, that, in these moments of pure chaotic destruction, silence--that one impenetrable dimension--was the only true remedy, and its soothing vortex of bittersweet nothingness engulfed even the deepest of agonies.
The young man was beginning--albeit with considerable effort--to regain control of himself. Storm relaxed slightly, and smiled as he raised his tear-streaked face, whispering a hoarse apology. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly, and the words were meant for her ears alone. "I've never lost control like this before... Not with other people around to see it."
"It is perfectly understandable, my friend," she said gently. "You have just witnessed something that nobody so young should be forced to witness. I believe, and I hope you do not mind my saying so, that you are handling the situation admirably." Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were hollow, but, through some miracle, she managed to keep the lie out of her voice. She winced slightly as she recalled her own childhood; indeed when she had been the boy's age, she had experienced far worse situations than mere murder. As the images of her own youth, spent alone and frightened on the streets of Cairo, filled her unwilling mind, she felt her eyes moving to meet those of the smallest of the Young Ones, the helpless little boy named Bobby.
He had sunk to the ground, curling in on himself in a posture similar to the foetal position adopted scant moments earlier by his leader. Jubilee, also with tears in her eyes, was holding him. She too, it seemed, had been acutely moved by this experience, though Storm knew that, young as she too was, the newest member of the X-Men team had also witnessed her share of horror. Perhaps then, it was fitting that she be the one to console the frightened Barbarian, as it was clear that the two had developed a strong rapport in the short time that they had been together. It was touching, and moving, though highly inappropriate considering the circumstances. Still, Storm had no intention of reprimanding Jubilee for her immaturity; this particular bout of juvenile adolescence had served a *very* good cause.
Sheila, by contrast, was not sobbing. She lay in Gambit's arms, groaning slightly and gazing up at the ceiling through unseeing eyes; in spite of her obvious distress at what she had witnessed, it seemed that the young Thief understood the urgency of what Wolverine had been forced to do. Her eyes were empty, and Storm could see that this trauma would scar her for a long time; however, it was clear that she had accepted the necessity of the mutant's action. It seemed, Storm pondered as she smiled at Gambit's gentle murmurs of reassurance, that perhaps the girl was far stronger than her anxious demeanour suggested.
Noticing the direction in which the thoughtful mutant was looking, Hank grinned weakly and followed her gaze. "You don't need to worry about Sheila," he said quietly, as if reading Storm's mind. "She's much stronger than she seems." His watery smile disappeared and he sighed. "Not much like me, huh?" He shook his head sadly, and she could see him once again struggling against his internal demons.
Storm did not respond to this comment, merely quirked an eyebrow and helped him to his feet. Though obviously shaken, the young Ranger appeared perfectly capable of standing by himself, and Storm made no attempt to offer him unnecessary support; in the short time since she had first met him, she had learned immediately that Hank would not appreciate such caring nurturance. Frightened as the poor boy was, the last thing he needed was to be reminded of his weakness.
"All right," he said, and his voice held none of its earlier commanding authority. "We need to make sure that everyone else is all right, then we really should--" he swallowed hard "--get the hell out of here."
Nodding, with some degree of relief at his attempt to forge even the thinnest layer of confidence around him, Storm moved towards Cyclops and Diana; however, before she even had the chance to reach them, she became suddenly and painfully aware of a permeating almost eerie silence, one that had not existed moments earlier. Rogue had stopped screaming, and the sense of nothingness that enveloped the room with breathtaking efficiency, was truly painful.
Gambit cried out, gazing helplessly at the Thief in his arms. "Chere!" he cried out, turning his eyes to his fellow mutant, even as his body remained loyally by the side f his semi-conscious charge. "Rogue, Chere, it's Gambit! You all right? Talk to me, Chere!" It was obvious that he was struggling not to simply drop Sheila to the floor and run as fast as he could to her side. Storm sighed softly; as disturbing as Rogue's dance with insanity had been, it had struck Storm--and, excluding Gambit, the other X-Men as well--as something of a relief that she had not allowed it to interfere with their mission. Certainly--and Storm cursed herself for feeling this way--it would have been far easier had the psychotic mutant simply passed out from the sheer force of her newfound power than spent the time attempting to destroy the others; indeed, as compared to several previous instances, Storm considered the amount of self-restrain that Rogue had maintained to be nothing short of remarkable, and as she gazed at her long-time friend, who now lay among the bricks she had demolished, worryingly still and silent, she felt a deep admiration welling up inside her.
"I am sorry, Hank," she said to the Ranger, allowing a faint glimmer of regret to enter her soft voice as she continued to look at Rogue. "I must take care of my friend, just as you must take care of yours. Can you endure without my help for the time being?"
He nodded, already crouching beside Bobby's still-huddled figure. Storm smiled at his courage, and flew to the other mutant's side. "Rogue," she murmured quietly, unwilling to speak too loudly or move too suddenly for fear of the all-too-real potentiality of Venger's powers having not completely dissipated. "My friend, are you all right?"
"No!" Rogue cried, trembling violently. "So much power inside of me... Ya gotta help me, sugar. I can't breathe..." She squeezed her eyes closed and leaned, visibly exhausted, against her friend. "Storm, please... ya gotta get him outta me... It hurts so bad..."
Storm embraced her friend tightly, saddened, as she always was, by the effects of simple tactile contact on Rogue's fragile psyche. "It will be all right, Rogue," she said, hearing the words reverberate emptily, just as they had when she had spoken them to Hank, mere minutes earlier. "I promise, it will be all right. Has the Quintessence's power left you now?"
"I dunno," the other mutant replied in a hoarse whisper. "I can still feel him inside of me..." She cried out, raking clawlike fingers through her streaked hair. "It's drivin' me crazy! The evil... it ain't just inside my head no more. Don't y'understand, Storm? It's part of me now. I..." she broke off, tears in her eyes. "I want it." As the words escaped her lips, she began to sob unabashedly, pressing her face against Storm's shoulder. "Ya hear me? I *want* it! I wanna have this evil power inside me." She sat up for a moment, taking her friend's arms and shaking her hard. "D'ya know what that feels like? Ta know that yer a good person, an' that you'd never hurt anyone fer anythin' in the whole world... but ta have all this evil inside of ya and *want* it there, want it ta take over you?"
Storm shook her head slowly and honestly, at a complete loss for anything to say, any words to express the sympathy that she felt for her hurting companion. She had admittedly endured her share of disturbing experiences, and moments where her mutant gifts felt-in contrast to anything and everything that Professor Xavier would say to the contrary-like a curse. Still, even then, she had been, at least in part, in control of herself, and always in almost perfect understanding of her own mind. Since becoming a member of the X-Men team, her rationality and intelligence had proven again and again to be not only beneficial to the team itself, but crucially vital to her own sanity. The mere thought of losing this wisdom frightened the cool-headed mutant, and it was in no small part as a result of this secret internal fear that she found herself particularly upset by Rogue's terrified sobs.
Aloud, she spoke nothing of these conflicts, instead allowing Rogue to continue to shake her, shouting furious expletives and begging for somebody to help her. "Do not be afraid," Storm soothed quietly, forcing her own concerns to become submerged within the shroud of her perfectly-ordered mind. "I am here, and I will help you." Of course, she knew just as well as Rogue that these words were beyond merely lies. "It is over, Rogue. We are safe and we have survived. Do not be afraid."
Rogue raised one hand, staring at it without recognition. It sparked slightly, but did not, as Storm had seen earlier, erupt into flames; this offered the patient mutant all the evidence she needed that the Quintessence had left her friend's body, and would, soon enough, also leave her mind. Although--and this was the question that caused Storm's heart to stop for a moment--whether this would happen before it destroyed what remained of her sanity, was difficult to guess.
"His powers are gone," Rogue was mumbling, visibly disturbed by even this simple fact. "Storm! His powers are gone. Why can I still feel him inside my head? He should be outta me by now! Why's he still there? Get him OUT of me!"
Storm winced, cursing the fact that Jean Grey, Professor Xavier, and any other psychically-active mutants that may have been able to offer some form of help, were all countless miles away, on a different planet. She, with nothing more than a mere control over the elements knew of nothing that could, even remotely, calm her friend down, or at least prevent her mind from further crumbling beneath the force of the evil creature that, supposedly, still inhabited her. "What can I do?" she heard herself ask. "I do not know what I can do for you, my friend. I am not a psychic, and we have no way of contacting Jean or the Professor."
"Ya think I care?" wailed Rogue, beginning to cry harder. "Just do *something*!"
"Relax, Chere. Gambit is here now." Storm looked up as the smiling Cajun, who approached them with one arm draped over Sheila's arm; Storm smiled slightly, noting that the girl in question appeared fairly steady as she leaned against him, though it was clear that she had returned to full functioning only scant moments earlier. The concerned Cajun shot the Thief a charming grin, the moved to kneel beside Rogue. "What's wrong, Chere? Why you still cryin' if he's left ya?"
"Remy!" she sobbed, overwhelmed by emotion as she gazed upon his caring features. "Remy, ya gotta help me! He ain't gone! His powers are outta me, but the evil, the--" she broke off, screaming. "He's still inside of me. I can't get rid of him. Ya gotta help me! If you ever cared about me, even a little, then get him outta my head!" Her energy spent, she slumped back, laying uncomfortably on the crumbled bricks that were the fruits of her possessed labour.
"Chere, Gambit not sure what you want me ta do." He stared at her, obviously struggling to empathise with her suffering. "Gambit loves you, ya know that..." He reached across, pulling her into his arms; Storm turned her gaze to Sheila, who stood by, sustaining an effortful facade of careless indifference. "But there ain't nothin' Gambit can do for ya. Gambit wanna help... more'n anything in th'world, Gambit wanna help ya, Chere... but he don't even know what's wrong."
Rogue nodded weakly and leaned against him. She didn't say anything for a long time, merely closed her eyes and rested against his strong chest. Storm and Gambit exchanged anxious glances, but Storm found herself unable to break the sudden silence, even as it was punctuated by the exhausted mutant's ragged gasps. Sheila stood back, looking from Remy to Rogue and back again, discomfort evident in her every feature. Twice, Storm saw her moving to speak, but both times she appeared to think better of it, and held back in an attempt to give the mutants a little personal space.
"What's going on over here?" asked Cyclops, moving with Diana to join them. "Is she all right?"
Storm glanced up, smiling slightly as Scott stood, strong and steady as ever in the midst of the chaos that seemed to envelop Rogue and all surrounding her. "We do not know," she explained softly, climbing to her feet. "She claims that the creature's powers have left her, but that she can still 'feel' his presence inside her mind."
Nodding thoughtfully, Scott moved to kneel beside Gambit, who still cradled the whimpering Rogue in his arms. Storm shook her head at the sense of cool rationality that seemed to follow the X-Men leader, pervading even the most disordered of situations... including, she mused, this one. Refreshed by his soothing presence, she glanced back at the two young girls. Diana had stepped instantly to Sheila's side, and currently held one hand on the other girl's arm, grinning with confidence and reassurance.
"You okay, Sheila?" she asked softly.
Though Diana had been with the other group for the most part of the adventure, consequently preventing Storm from learning anything about her, the intelligent mutant could see, even from this brief interaction, that the girl had a deep courage within her, although this flickering light had paled visibly in the shadow of Hank's earlier heroic strength. Storm frowned, wondering briefly why--and, in fact, how--Diana had managed to control herself where Hank had not; the flaws in Hank's perfection stabbed through his hero's aura with a violent clarity. Storm knew that placing people on premature pedestals was dangerous, but in the case of the brave Ranger, she had made an exception... and, of course, she had been incorrect in doing so.
Diana, by direct contrast, showed no external qualms, no visible worries. However, Storm could easily see that, lingering only a short distance beneath the unwavering surface of the girl's powerful spirit, lay one who was just as frightened as Hank, and indeed, Rogue. The difference, Storm realised, was that Diana was unashamed by it, whereas Hank had denied its existence, allowing it to feed on his unconscious concerns and fears, until it had simply broken through the falsehood of his bravery.
Sheila was grinning. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said softly. "A little overwhelmed, I guess, but I think I'm okay." Storm smiled at the girl's honesty; unlike any of the other Young Ones--excluding her little brother, though that was the truth of youth--Sheila was unafraid to express herself, perfectly content to display signs of weakness, of doubt, of fear, and, in Storm's opinion, this made her a far greater person than Hank or Diana could possibly comprehend. "Is Bobby all right?"
Smiling, Diana tilted her head towards where Hank and Jubilee still crouched beside the Barbarian. "Hank's talking to him," she said gently. "And Jubilee's staying by hi side..." She winked. "Looks like those two have really hit it off." She nudged the Thief with a good-natured grin. "He'll be fine. You know what Bobby's like. He's the one who tried to take on Venger *and* Tiamat single-handed--" She paused, wincing as a tear trickled down Sheila's face. "Oh, damn.... Sheila, I'm sorry. That just slipped out." She closed her eyes. "What I meant to say is, Bobby's not going to be taken down by something like this. He's a natural fighter."
"Thanks," Sheila said tearfully. "I think I'll go and check on him. He might want his sister there to take care of him." She glanced back to where Gambit still cradled Rogue. "If... uhh, if Remy asks about me, just tell him I went to talk to my brother." She blushed deeply as Diana laughed and nodded, slapping her on the back. Storm smiled at the two of them, suddenly realising how little the Realm and its horrors had actually affected the Young Ones' naturally youthful personalities.
Diana stood by nervously for a few seconds, looking from Storm, to Gambit and Rogue, to Scott--who was in the process of asking Rogue about the cause of her distress, and trying fruitlessly to elicit a coherent response--and back to Storm. "Uh..." she murmured, staring at the ground and obviously feeling like something of a fifth wheel. "I'm gonna go and..." she looked around desperately in search of an excuse to escape "see if Wolverine needs any help with Eric. Hope you... uhh, feel better, Rogue." She offered the assembled X-Men a polite smile, and left them alone.
Storm chuckled softly and returned her attention to her suffering comrade, who appeared to have regained some form of coherent sanity. She still lay in Gambit's arms, gazing up at the ceiling, but she definitely seemed more like herself. "I'm sorry," she was murmuring hoarsely. "Guess I lost my head... I think I'm all right now."
"Ya sure, Chere?" Remy asked very softly. "You gave Gambit a real scare back there. Gambit don't never wanna see ya like that again." He smiled and held her down as she tried ineffectually to climb out of his arms. "No, y'gonna stay there 'till we sure you're safe."
Rogue nodded, visibly too weary to argue, and lay back against him. He sighed softly as she half-closed her eyes, then looked up to Storm and Cyclops with obvious discomfort in his otherwise-unflappable features, and Storm shook her head slightly; if there was anything in the Universe that could shatter Remy's suave, ice-cool demeanour, it was Rogue.
Even as the silent mutant allowed herself to relax a little, secure in the knowledge that the immediate crisis was resolved and that, in a matter of minutes, the DungeonMaster would graciously decide to return them to their home-world, Storm felt the painful tug of anxiety wrenching around her stomach. Something was not right. She looked around; Rogue had calmed down--though clearly this was more the result of exhaustion than a genuine state of relaxation--Bobby was stumbling to his feet-he was evidently still shaken, but courage shone brightly in his blue eyes-and Hank had returned comfortably to Perfect Leader Mode.
But, if this was indeed the case, if everything had genuinely returned to what passed for 'normal' in this upside-down world, then why was Storm suddenly enveloped by a permeating sense of dread? And why, if the evil force had been vanquished, was she suddenly aware of a cruel icy chill enshrouding the entire room? And why, if the true source of darkness was no more, were the bright carpets suddenly dull and cold, thrown into the sinister shadow of a dark maleficient figure?
*****
Hank was staring blindly at DungeonMaster, eyes wide and mouth half-open as he struggled to take in the true depth of what the old man was saying. Presto shook his head slightly at the betrayal and disbelief on his one-time hero and leader's face; this mission had evidently shattered the Ranger's previously unshakable will, and, as he thought about the consequences of this frightening implication, Presto knew that he should be sharing his friend's pain. He, more so than any of the others, had experience with wounded psyches and crushed confidence, yet as he gazed at the turmoil pasted so clearly across the heroic Ranger's stoic features, he could not muster even the faintest trace of pity.
After all that they had been through in the Realm, the six Young Ones had developed deep, unbreakable bonds with each other, and Presto found himself markedly discomfited by the lack of empathy that he felt as he gazed at Hank's pathetically tear-streaked face. Instead of concern about his long-time friend's state of mind, he felt little more than bitter contempt for the Ranger's inexcusable weakness. He, the cowardly one, the one renowned for screwing up, the loser, had not broken down; what gave Hank the right to? Disgust gave way to anger. Hank was the strong one, the hero, the backbone of the group. How dare he lose control like this? How *dare* he?
Rolling his eyes, Presto looked away from his crumbling leader, turning to the new object of his idolisation, the primal mutant known as Wolverine. There was no question over *his* sanity, no lingering qualms regarding *his* state of mind; admittedly, it seemed that he did experience occasional 'difficulties' in controlling his predatory instincts, but the more the young Magician thought about it, the more he realised that this was a small price to pay for being a *real* hero. As Presto thought back to his previous conversation with the animalistic mutant, he suddenly found himself realising just how deeply Logan's brusque words had inspired him, and, looking back to his broken leader, he was, by direct contrast able to recall nothing more than questions, and, more specifically, questions that Hank himself had posed and been unable to answer. Some hero!
After spending his entire pre-Realm life as little more than a ridiculous joke, and enduring the full brunt of Eric's barbs for the duration of their time in the Realm, Presto was sick of being the victim.
Wolverine was strong and emotionless, brave and aggressive, wild and free. To be blunt, he was everything that Presto had always dreamed of being, but had lacked the courage to strive for. Though he had realised at the time that Logan's speech had touched him at a level far beyond his comprehension, Presto had not, until the moment Hank broke down, fully understood just how significant that depth was. He had, quite simply, had enough. Enough sitting around and wondering what *else* was going to go wrong in their latest 'quest'. Enough waiting for the Ranger to come up with yet another plan that might--if they were lucky--provide them with a dwindling glimpse of the world that they called home. Enough failure. It was time for *him* to take charge, to prove to his friends, to the X-Men, and, most importantly, to his new hero, that he *did* have what it took to be truly Great.
He smiled, looking around at his companions. Cyclops and Diana were frowning at DungeonMaster, murmuring useless words at him in an attempt to convince him to seek some alternative solution; the former was tense and subdued, the latter animated and furious, and, in Presto's opinion, both as superfluous as each other. Storm had fallen silent, apparently aware of the futility of further attempts at reasonable argument; Presto nodded thoughtfully, mentally applauding her wisdom. Gambit and Sheila were embracing; with a bitter chuckle, Presto recognised the hug as one of consolation rather than passion. The sweet-talking Cajun was merely offering the young Thief--and to some extent, Presto guessed, himself as well--a moment away from the torture of the act that they were being ordered to commit. Eric was cowering behind his shield; Presto shook his head in disbelief at the Cavalier's ludicrous wails. It was obvious that there was no immediate danger--with the possible exception of Rogue's still-raging powers--yet Eric foolishly refused to acknowledge this simple fact. It was truly pathetic. Bobby and Jubilee were clinging to each other, visibly out of their depth in this moment of adult confrontation; Presto took the briefest of moments to direct a spark of pity towards the youngest members of the group, grateful once again that, thanks to Wolverine's remarkable inspirational powers, he no longer considered himself as numbered among those weak enough to be moved by such paradigms as good and evil, life and death.
And, in a juxtaposition that made his head spin, the violent mutant Wolverine was smiling calmly-indeed, smiling and not sneering!-while Hank stumbled backwards, wild-eyed panic pervading his once-stoic features. The transformation struck Presto with full force at that moment, as he realised for the first time just how seriously this ordeal had affected the Ranger, yet still, he found himself unable to summon even a shard of sympathy. Instead, he used what remained of his strength to emulate Logan's contented grin.
"You must destroy him," DungeonMaster repeated, enunciating carefully. "Now."
Hank shook his head, falling once again to his knees. "I can't."
Wolverine laughed. "Then *I* will." He raised his claws. "This trash has gone on long enough." He roared, looking around one last time, in expectation of some form of resistance; whether from Hank, Cyclops, or indeed, DungeonMaster, Presto could not be certain. As he gazes around at his companions, the Magician was stunned by the total lack of response to the mutant's outburst; it seemed, for a moment at least, that Logan too was surprised by the lack of argument with his decision, as he paused for several seconds before plunging his adamantium weapons downwards.
In spite of his vows to remain strong, Presto found himself entirely unable to watch this act of unchecked violence. As he averted his eyes, he could hear the bloodthirsty cry leaving Wolverine's lips, as well as the horrified groan escaping Hank's. And, as the sounds imprinted themselves forever upon his brain, he suddenly, for the first time since meeting the real-life comic-book characters, began to question his choice of heroes.
The Quintessence made no noise as Wolverine ended his reign of terror, and Presto felt an overwhelming pressure holding itself down upon his brain. The silence was too loud, too surreal. It was unnatural. He managed to remain upright as he watched the life ebbing away from the creature that had crushed their hopes and dreams so often and so effectively; the simple act of holding himself on his feet, in its pure simplicity, spoke volumes about his inner strength, and, as he gazed around at his friends, he noted that they were not so strong. Sheila had slipped into a semi-consciousness state of delirium, and lay once again in Gambit's arms, moaning softly to herself; her brother was sitting on the frozen ground, Jubilee's hand on his shoulder, sobbing quietly. Eric was huddled behind his shield, and Presto wondered whether he was even aware of the fact that whatever he was protecting himself from was now deceased. Even the pillar of strength Diana was staggering, keeping herself upright solely through the support of her javelin. And Hank... Hank was little more than a quivering mass of flesh, inarticulate and scared as a child. Never in his entire life had Presto seen anything so pitiful.
"Hank..." he heard himself murmuring softly. "My God... Hank..."
DungeonMaster had moved to the Ranger's side, and was gripping his arms tightly. "My son," he said gently. "I am truly sorry that you were forced to endure this. Please believe me when I say that if any other way were possible--"
"Believe you?" Hank cried, jerking his head up. His eyes were filled with an intensity that Presto had never before seen, and, despite his new courageous self, the Magician found himself genuinely frightened by it. "How can I believe you? After everything you've taught us, everything you've done for us? After all we've been through, all those times when it seemed like all was lost, but *your* riddles, *your* words of wisdom kept us from doing something stupid... from doing something like this!" His entire body was trembling as he tore his arms away from the old man's fragile grip. "Don't touch me. Don't even talk to me. I *never* want to hear you, see you, or speak to you again. We'll find the way home by ourselves, without your help. Go away."
DungeonMaster took a breath, apparently speechless. Presto took a step forwards, part of his old self wishing fervently for everything to stop and life to return to its normal unpredictable state; before he even had a chance to open his mouth, however, he felt Wolverine's hand on his shoulder and, as he looked up at the wild mutant, seeing in his burning eyes the deep, unspoken regret of forced murder, he sighed and stilled his aching heart. He would be strong, he would be emotionless.
"My pupils..." whispered the old man, voice tight.
"I think Hank has made himself perfectly clear," said Diana very quietly; her face was blank as she knelt by the shattered Ranger, and wrapped her arms around him. "Leave us alone. Your advice is no longer needed or welcome." She paused, gazing from Hank's muffled devastation, to Sheila's drowsy delirium, to Bobby's soft weeping, to Eric's panicked whimpers, to Presto's own unnatural stoicism, and finally back to DungeonMaster. "How could you do this to us?" she asked. "How could you bring us here, put us through so much in such a short time... only to demand that we just throw away our feelings, our morals... to throw away everything you've taught us since we arrived here... and *kill* someone? Bobby's only ten years old, for crying out loud... how could you expose him to such horror, such pain, such--" she broke off, unable to continue. "Forget it. What's the damned point?"
Presto closed his eyes. So much, so fast... All of a sudden, he wanted to break down and cry. He no longer wished to be cold, strong, and emotionless. He just wanted to be mortal, to feel the pain and regret that pasted itself across Diana's face and wracked Hank's body with violent sobs. But he couldn't. He had come too far. He could not feel. Wolverine would be very proud, he knew, but the realisation struck him as something of a bittersweet victory. With the crisis resolved, the X-Men would be returned to their world, he knew, thus leaving Presto and his friends in the Realm, completely alone for the first time, without even the fragmentary shards of advice offered by the helplessly pleading man who knelt desperately before his hating pupils.
Wolverine would soon be gone, lost to the inevitable pull of his own distant home, but his vicious heartlessness would live on in Presto's own heart and this, even more than the sickening realisation of what he and his friends had just witnessed at the growling mutant's hands, frightened the Magician beyond all consolation. He had become hardened. He had become like the one who had ruthlessly cut down a living, breathing individual. He had become like his hero.
The X-Men remained politely distant as the Young Ones came to terms with what they had just been a part of. Though he did not know very much about the fictional world from which the mutants had originated, he knew that they had witnessed their share of death and destruction, and to ruthlessly cut down an evil adversary would not be unusual to them. How could they, who had spent their entire lives in a world filled with prejudice and hatred, fully comprehend the loss of innocence forced upon the likes of Hank and Bobby? It was fairly obvious, even to Presto, that they could not; still, as he watched, Storm, Cyclops and the others moved to comfort their young counterparts, offering soft-spoken words of sympathy and encouragement, he found himself beginning to momentarily question the validity of the premature observation. Certainly, it seemed, the burning empathy in Jubilee's eyes as she embraced Bobby, and the heart-wrenching agony in Gambit's as he held Sheila with accustomed tenderness and gazed at the still-shrieking form of Rogue, that they could genuinely understand the torment of those who they sought so desperately to comfort. For several long minutes, Presto stood and watched, totally dumbstruck, as his friends allowed themselves to be comforted by comic-book characters.
Despite his desire to be strong and heroic, the Magician could not entirely conceal the bubbling heat of jealousy that welled up within him as he observed his new hero Wolverine moving to approach none other than the loud-mouthed and obnoxious Eric. For a minute--and no longer--Presto was overwhelmed with anger and pain at being so completely ignored by the object of his immature hero-worship, but scant seconds later he realised, with no small degree of pride, that, for his latest guru to so willingly abandon his would-be protege, the Wizard would have to appear--on the outside, at least--to be coping well enough by himself.
Or so he liked to think.
"Hey, kid," Logan said, moving to crouch beside the terrified Cavalier. "You okay?"
Eric looked up from behind his shield, scowling at the mutant. "Yeah, I'm fine!" he muttered, and his voice wobbled a little. "Takes more than a little..." he coughed uneasily, and his poorly-manufactured facade of courage faltered, "...to scare *this* Cavalier!" He forced a grin, and Presto was struck--almost physically--by the tremulous, artificial nature of the smirk. Upon closer inspection, though, it became apparent that the 'smirk' was in fact nothing more than a pained grimace, a badly-disguised attempt to mask the agony within--the selfsame agony that brutally tore apart the rest of his friends, yet completely failed to sustain even the most tenuous grasp upon the wimpy Magician for more than a fragmentary moment.
What had he become? Even Logan appeared faintly disturbed by what he had been forced to do, but Presto himself, the one with possibly the greatest reason to collapse under the pressure--the coward--was unable to summon any form of emotion. It was as if his mind had simply ceased to function and his feelings had shut themselves down, refusing to surface even as he sank to his knees and begged them to. He was nothing, a mere empty husk, no more than flesh and blood. He was--and the implications of this realisation caused his unfulfilled desire to think, hurt, and *feel*, to become even more violent--only marginally more human than the broken Quintessence, the one who would never again rise to his majestic feet.
It was several painful minutes later, just as Presto finally felt the infinite barrier that surrounded his emotions begin, ever so slightly, to crumble beneath the force of his will--allowing him for the briefest of instants to taste that harsh, inconsolable agony that so tortured his friends--that Rogue's deafening screams finally silenced.
*****
Storm gazed at the chaos around her, and struggled to remain calm. As the Quintessence had died, so too, it seemed, had all sense of rationality, and the unbridled insanity that had ensued upon his destruction shook her to her very soul. She knelt silently beside Hank, gazing with undisguised anguish at the tormented spasms that racked his body, and shaking her head sadly; for what could she, a mere mortal, do or say to relieve the suffering that was the Loss of Innocence?
Crouching on the other side of the Ranger's sobbing form, the young Acrobat Diana still held him, comforting him through touch, without the use of words. Storm moved to do the same, and as she did so, the other pulled back, nodding gratefully as the sympathetic mutant took her place; at the same time, Cyclops, ever quietly compassionate, gripped the girl's trembling shoulders with the unspoken empathy characteristic of all great leaders. It seemed, Storm mused as she embraced the shattered Ranger, that, in these moments of pure chaotic destruction, silence--that one impenetrable dimension--was the only true remedy, and its soothing vortex of bittersweet nothingness engulfed even the deepest of agonies.
The young man was beginning--albeit with considerable effort--to regain control of himself. Storm relaxed slightly, and smiled as he raised his tear-streaked face, whispering a hoarse apology. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly, and the words were meant for her ears alone. "I've never lost control like this before... Not with other people around to see it."
"It is perfectly understandable, my friend," she said gently. "You have just witnessed something that nobody so young should be forced to witness. I believe, and I hope you do not mind my saying so, that you are handling the situation admirably." Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were hollow, but, through some miracle, she managed to keep the lie out of her voice. She winced slightly as she recalled her own childhood; indeed when she had been the boy's age, she had experienced far worse situations than mere murder. As the images of her own youth, spent alone and frightened on the streets of Cairo, filled her unwilling mind, she felt her eyes moving to meet those of the smallest of the Young Ones, the helpless little boy named Bobby.
He had sunk to the ground, curling in on himself in a posture similar to the foetal position adopted scant moments earlier by his leader. Jubilee, also with tears in her eyes, was holding him. She too, it seemed, had been acutely moved by this experience, though Storm knew that, young as she too was, the newest member of the X-Men team had also witnessed her share of horror. Perhaps then, it was fitting that she be the one to console the frightened Barbarian, as it was clear that the two had developed a strong rapport in the short time that they had been together. It was touching, and moving, though highly inappropriate considering the circumstances. Still, Storm had no intention of reprimanding Jubilee for her immaturity; this particular bout of juvenile adolescence had served a *very* good cause.
Sheila, by contrast, was not sobbing. She lay in Gambit's arms, groaning slightly and gazing up at the ceiling through unseeing eyes; in spite of her obvious distress at what she had witnessed, it seemed that the young Thief understood the urgency of what Wolverine had been forced to do. Her eyes were empty, and Storm could see that this trauma would scar her for a long time; however, it was clear that she had accepted the necessity of the mutant's action. It seemed, Storm pondered as she smiled at Gambit's gentle murmurs of reassurance, that perhaps the girl was far stronger than her anxious demeanour suggested.
Noticing the direction in which the thoughtful mutant was looking, Hank grinned weakly and followed her gaze. "You don't need to worry about Sheila," he said quietly, as if reading Storm's mind. "She's much stronger than she seems." His watery smile disappeared and he sighed. "Not much like me, huh?" He shook his head sadly, and she could see him once again struggling against his internal demons.
Storm did not respond to this comment, merely quirked an eyebrow and helped him to his feet. Though obviously shaken, the young Ranger appeared perfectly capable of standing by himself, and Storm made no attempt to offer him unnecessary support; in the short time since she had first met him, she had learned immediately that Hank would not appreciate such caring nurturance. Frightened as the poor boy was, the last thing he needed was to be reminded of his weakness.
"All right," he said, and his voice held none of its earlier commanding authority. "We need to make sure that everyone else is all right, then we really should--" he swallowed hard "--get the hell out of here."
Nodding, with some degree of relief at his attempt to forge even the thinnest layer of confidence around him, Storm moved towards Cyclops and Diana; however, before she even had the chance to reach them, she became suddenly and painfully aware of a permeating almost eerie silence, one that had not existed moments earlier. Rogue had stopped screaming, and the sense of nothingness that enveloped the room with breathtaking efficiency, was truly painful.
Gambit cried out, gazing helplessly at the Thief in his arms. "Chere!" he cried out, turning his eyes to his fellow mutant, even as his body remained loyally by the side f his semi-conscious charge. "Rogue, Chere, it's Gambit! You all right? Talk to me, Chere!" It was obvious that he was struggling not to simply drop Sheila to the floor and run as fast as he could to her side. Storm sighed softly; as disturbing as Rogue's dance with insanity had been, it had struck Storm--and, excluding Gambit, the other X-Men as well--as something of a relief that she had not allowed it to interfere with their mission. Certainly--and Storm cursed herself for feeling this way--it would have been far easier had the psychotic mutant simply passed out from the sheer force of her newfound power than spent the time attempting to destroy the others; indeed, as compared to several previous instances, Storm considered the amount of self-restrain that Rogue had maintained to be nothing short of remarkable, and as she gazed at her long-time friend, who now lay among the bricks she had demolished, worryingly still and silent, she felt a deep admiration welling up inside her.
"I am sorry, Hank," she said to the Ranger, allowing a faint glimmer of regret to enter her soft voice as she continued to look at Rogue. "I must take care of my friend, just as you must take care of yours. Can you endure without my help for the time being?"
He nodded, already crouching beside Bobby's still-huddled figure. Storm smiled at his courage, and flew to the other mutant's side. "Rogue," she murmured quietly, unwilling to speak too loudly or move too suddenly for fear of the all-too-real potentiality of Venger's powers having not completely dissipated. "My friend, are you all right?"
"No!" Rogue cried, trembling violently. "So much power inside of me... Ya gotta help me, sugar. I can't breathe..." She squeezed her eyes closed and leaned, visibly exhausted, against her friend. "Storm, please... ya gotta get him outta me... It hurts so bad..."
Storm embraced her friend tightly, saddened, as she always was, by the effects of simple tactile contact on Rogue's fragile psyche. "It will be all right, Rogue," she said, hearing the words reverberate emptily, just as they had when she had spoken them to Hank, mere minutes earlier. "I promise, it will be all right. Has the Quintessence's power left you now?"
"I dunno," the other mutant replied in a hoarse whisper. "I can still feel him inside of me..." She cried out, raking clawlike fingers through her streaked hair. "It's drivin' me crazy! The evil... it ain't just inside my head no more. Don't y'understand, Storm? It's part of me now. I..." she broke off, tears in her eyes. "I want it." As the words escaped her lips, she began to sob unabashedly, pressing her face against Storm's shoulder. "Ya hear me? I *want* it! I wanna have this evil power inside me." She sat up for a moment, taking her friend's arms and shaking her hard. "D'ya know what that feels like? Ta know that yer a good person, an' that you'd never hurt anyone fer anythin' in the whole world... but ta have all this evil inside of ya and *want* it there, want it ta take over you?"
Storm shook her head slowly and honestly, at a complete loss for anything to say, any words to express the sympathy that she felt for her hurting companion. She had admittedly endured her share of disturbing experiences, and moments where her mutant gifts felt-in contrast to anything and everything that Professor Xavier would say to the contrary-like a curse. Still, even then, she had been, at least in part, in control of herself, and always in almost perfect understanding of her own mind. Since becoming a member of the X-Men team, her rationality and intelligence had proven again and again to be not only beneficial to the team itself, but crucially vital to her own sanity. The mere thought of losing this wisdom frightened the cool-headed mutant, and it was in no small part as a result of this secret internal fear that she found herself particularly upset by Rogue's terrified sobs.
Aloud, she spoke nothing of these conflicts, instead allowing Rogue to continue to shake her, shouting furious expletives and begging for somebody to help her. "Do not be afraid," Storm soothed quietly, forcing her own concerns to become submerged within the shroud of her perfectly-ordered mind. "I am here, and I will help you." Of course, she knew just as well as Rogue that these words were beyond merely lies. "It is over, Rogue. We are safe and we have survived. Do not be afraid."
Rogue raised one hand, staring at it without recognition. It sparked slightly, but did not, as Storm had seen earlier, erupt into flames; this offered the patient mutant all the evidence she needed that the Quintessence had left her friend's body, and would, soon enough, also leave her mind. Although--and this was the question that caused Storm's heart to stop for a moment--whether this would happen before it destroyed what remained of her sanity, was difficult to guess.
"His powers are gone," Rogue was mumbling, visibly disturbed by even this simple fact. "Storm! His powers are gone. Why can I still feel him inside my head? He should be outta me by now! Why's he still there? Get him OUT of me!"
Storm winced, cursing the fact that Jean Grey, Professor Xavier, and any other psychically-active mutants that may have been able to offer some form of help, were all countless miles away, on a different planet. She, with nothing more than a mere control over the elements knew of nothing that could, even remotely, calm her friend down, or at least prevent her mind from further crumbling beneath the force of the evil creature that, supposedly, still inhabited her. "What can I do?" she heard herself ask. "I do not know what I can do for you, my friend. I am not a psychic, and we have no way of contacting Jean or the Professor."
"Ya think I care?" wailed Rogue, beginning to cry harder. "Just do *something*!"
"Relax, Chere. Gambit is here now." Storm looked up as the smiling Cajun, who approached them with one arm draped over Sheila's arm; Storm smiled slightly, noting that the girl in question appeared fairly steady as she leaned against him, though it was clear that she had returned to full functioning only scant moments earlier. The concerned Cajun shot the Thief a charming grin, the moved to kneel beside Rogue. "What's wrong, Chere? Why you still cryin' if he's left ya?"
"Remy!" she sobbed, overwhelmed by emotion as she gazed upon his caring features. "Remy, ya gotta help me! He ain't gone! His powers are outta me, but the evil, the--" she broke off, screaming. "He's still inside of me. I can't get rid of him. Ya gotta help me! If you ever cared about me, even a little, then get him outta my head!" Her energy spent, she slumped back, laying uncomfortably on the crumbled bricks that were the fruits of her possessed labour.
"Chere, Gambit not sure what you want me ta do." He stared at her, obviously struggling to empathise with her suffering. "Gambit loves you, ya know that..." He reached across, pulling her into his arms; Storm turned her gaze to Sheila, who stood by, sustaining an effortful facade of careless indifference. "But there ain't nothin' Gambit can do for ya. Gambit wanna help... more'n anything in th'world, Gambit wanna help ya, Chere... but he don't even know what's wrong."
Rogue nodded weakly and leaned against him. She didn't say anything for a long time, merely closed her eyes and rested against his strong chest. Storm and Gambit exchanged anxious glances, but Storm found herself unable to break the sudden silence, even as it was punctuated by the exhausted mutant's ragged gasps. Sheila stood back, looking from Remy to Rogue and back again, discomfort evident in her every feature. Twice, Storm saw her moving to speak, but both times she appeared to think better of it, and held back in an attempt to give the mutants a little personal space.
"What's going on over here?" asked Cyclops, moving with Diana to join them. "Is she all right?"
Storm glanced up, smiling slightly as Scott stood, strong and steady as ever in the midst of the chaos that seemed to envelop Rogue and all surrounding her. "We do not know," she explained softly, climbing to her feet. "She claims that the creature's powers have left her, but that she can still 'feel' his presence inside her mind."
Nodding thoughtfully, Scott moved to kneel beside Gambit, who still cradled the whimpering Rogue in his arms. Storm shook her head at the sense of cool rationality that seemed to follow the X-Men leader, pervading even the most disordered of situations... including, she mused, this one. Refreshed by his soothing presence, she glanced back at the two young girls. Diana had stepped instantly to Sheila's side, and currently held one hand on the other girl's arm, grinning with confidence and reassurance.
"You okay, Sheila?" she asked softly.
Though Diana had been with the other group for the most part of the adventure, consequently preventing Storm from learning anything about her, the intelligent mutant could see, even from this brief interaction, that the girl had a deep courage within her, although this flickering light had paled visibly in the shadow of Hank's earlier heroic strength. Storm frowned, wondering briefly why--and, in fact, how--Diana had managed to control herself where Hank had not; the flaws in Hank's perfection stabbed through his hero's aura with a violent clarity. Storm knew that placing people on premature pedestals was dangerous, but in the case of the brave Ranger, she had made an exception... and, of course, she had been incorrect in doing so.
Diana, by direct contrast, showed no external qualms, no visible worries. However, Storm could easily see that, lingering only a short distance beneath the unwavering surface of the girl's powerful spirit, lay one who was just as frightened as Hank, and indeed, Rogue. The difference, Storm realised, was that Diana was unashamed by it, whereas Hank had denied its existence, allowing it to feed on his unconscious concerns and fears, until it had simply broken through the falsehood of his bravery.
Sheila was grinning. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said softly. "A little overwhelmed, I guess, but I think I'm okay." Storm smiled at the girl's honesty; unlike any of the other Young Ones--excluding her little brother, though that was the truth of youth--Sheila was unafraid to express herself, perfectly content to display signs of weakness, of doubt, of fear, and, in Storm's opinion, this made her a far greater person than Hank or Diana could possibly comprehend. "Is Bobby all right?"
Smiling, Diana tilted her head towards where Hank and Jubilee still crouched beside the Barbarian. "Hank's talking to him," she said gently. "And Jubilee's staying by hi side..." She winked. "Looks like those two have really hit it off." She nudged the Thief with a good-natured grin. "He'll be fine. You know what Bobby's like. He's the one who tried to take on Venger *and* Tiamat single-handed--" She paused, wincing as a tear trickled down Sheila's face. "Oh, damn.... Sheila, I'm sorry. That just slipped out." She closed her eyes. "What I meant to say is, Bobby's not going to be taken down by something like this. He's a natural fighter."
"Thanks," Sheila said tearfully. "I think I'll go and check on him. He might want his sister there to take care of him." She glanced back to where Gambit still cradled Rogue. "If... uhh, if Remy asks about me, just tell him I went to talk to my brother." She blushed deeply as Diana laughed and nodded, slapping her on the back. Storm smiled at the two of them, suddenly realising how little the Realm and its horrors had actually affected the Young Ones' naturally youthful personalities.
Diana stood by nervously for a few seconds, looking from Storm, to Gambit and Rogue, to Scott--who was in the process of asking Rogue about the cause of her distress, and trying fruitlessly to elicit a coherent response--and back to Storm. "Uh..." she murmured, staring at the ground and obviously feeling like something of a fifth wheel. "I'm gonna go and..." she looked around desperately in search of an excuse to escape "see if Wolverine needs any help with Eric. Hope you... uhh, feel better, Rogue." She offered the assembled X-Men a polite smile, and left them alone.
Storm chuckled softly and returned her attention to her suffering comrade, who appeared to have regained some form of coherent sanity. She still lay in Gambit's arms, gazing up at the ceiling, but she definitely seemed more like herself. "I'm sorry," she was murmuring hoarsely. "Guess I lost my head... I think I'm all right now."
"Ya sure, Chere?" Remy asked very softly. "You gave Gambit a real scare back there. Gambit don't never wanna see ya like that again." He smiled and held her down as she tried ineffectually to climb out of his arms. "No, y'gonna stay there 'till we sure you're safe."
Rogue nodded, visibly too weary to argue, and lay back against him. He sighed softly as she half-closed her eyes, then looked up to Storm and Cyclops with obvious discomfort in his otherwise-unflappable features, and Storm shook her head slightly; if there was anything in the Universe that could shatter Remy's suave, ice-cool demeanour, it was Rogue.
Even as the silent mutant allowed herself to relax a little, secure in the knowledge that the immediate crisis was resolved and that, in a matter of minutes, the DungeonMaster would graciously decide to return them to their home-world, Storm felt the painful tug of anxiety wrenching around her stomach. Something was not right. She looked around; Rogue had calmed down--though clearly this was more the result of exhaustion than a genuine state of relaxation--Bobby was stumbling to his feet-he was evidently still shaken, but courage shone brightly in his blue eyes-and Hank had returned comfortably to Perfect Leader Mode.
But, if this was indeed the case, if everything had genuinely returned to what passed for 'normal' in this upside-down world, then why was Storm suddenly enveloped by a permeating sense of dread? And why, if the evil force had been vanquished, was she suddenly aware of a cruel icy chill enshrouding the entire room? And why, if the true source of darkness was no more, were the bright carpets suddenly dull and cold, thrown into the sinister shadow of a dark maleficient figure?
*****