DISCLAIMER: The X-Men, Longshot and any affiliates of Silver Sable International belong to Marvel. I am using them without permission, but at no profit whatsoever. This is a tale told entirely for entertainment. Dakota and Yankton belong to me, and can only be used with my expressed permission. The Greek gods belong to well, the Greek and the rest of the world at large.

NOTE: After a long absence I return (to this series)! [Blame Dr. Bakewell and Ancient Greek History.]

Feedback can be sent to bkittle@creighton.edu


Climb That Mountain High - Part Ten
By: Beverly McIntyre

Cecilia Reyes stood at the big bay windows, watching the sun sink into the horizon. The golden light washed through the glass and brushed quietly across her face. She felt the last rays of warmth slowly withdraw as the sun finally plunged beneath the treetops. She sighed, eyes searching the treeline for any movement. Most of the male X-Men where still out on the grounds, searching for any signs of the creature that had attacked Storm and Dakota earlier. Wolverine seemed the most adamant about being absolutely positive that the satyr was no longer on the grounds.

Wolverine said something about smelling strong pheromones so the women were stuck in the mansion. Reyes hadn't quite understood his explanation, but after an abbreviated explanation from Longshot about what happened in the woods, Cecilia was more than willing to let everybody else go tromping through the estate grounds while she stayed indoors with the rest of the female team members. Except that most of the ladies didn't stay in the mansion. Rogue, Psylocke, and Storm had left with Longshot to go pick somebody up from somewhere. They didn't really say much before they rushed out.

Cecilia frowned. Storm's departure was entirely against her better judgement. The weather-controlling mutant had been through an ordeal not more than seven hours ago. An ordeal where she came back to the mansion unconscious. If Cecilia had known that she had been leaving that soon, she would have used all of her doctorly might to keep Ororo in the mansion and in bed until Reyes could be reasonably sure that nothing was wrong with the X-Woman. However, as it was, Cecilia learned of Storm's departure ten minutes after she left.

As the room dimmed with the further disappearance of sunlight, Cecilia reminded herself that she did still have a couple of patients to check up on. She turned from the large window and walked through the empty library. Her footfalls echoed off the barren shelves. Cecilia shivered slightly. When Bastion decides to clear everything out, he clears everything out. The X-Men had tried to refurnish the mansion, but things were still sparse.

Cecilia didn't like the emptiness one bit. Give her the hustle and bustle of a crowded ER over this hollowed out shell any time. She shivered slightly as she stopped outside a door cracked open slightly. A small trickle of light streamed out into the hallway.


The bow of the Triton's Point cut through the swelling waves. Salty spray making the slickered crewmen even damper. They scrambled to batten everything down. The old freighter wasn't as modern as most ships and the cargo hold doors had a habit of flying open if not secured properly. As many sinewy men ran from cargo hold to cargo hold, a grisled old man limped out from the cabin. His gait was unsteady but the rolling deck fit his hobbled stride perfectly. One of his gnarled hands was inside his slicker, holding something tightly against his chest.

One of the scrambling crewmen stopped, wiping the water from his green eyes. "Where's that dag think he's going? Those cargo holds're already secured on the starboard side."

"Don't mind the old Greek," shouted another man over the raging wind. "He's too old to be of any use at the moment anyway. Now, come on. The wind's already whipped one the doors open. They'll need some extra hands."

As the two Australian crewmen raced across the wet deck, the old man hobbled up to the slick rail. He lurched with the ship as another wave crashed over the deck. Cold water slushed past his dingy boots as he grabbed onto the railing with one gnarled hand as the other disappeared further into the flap of his rain slicker. He pressed the package closer to his heart, letting his life beat through the waxy paper.

He leaned over the railing slightly, against the howling wind. His craggy voice lost in the storm's frenzy as it flowed over words burned in his memory. The ancient Hellatic syllables spilled forth, fighting with the sea for dominance. He slowly drew his other hand out of his slicker, bringing a greasy packet out into the saturated air.

"Earth-shaker, please forgive this meager offering. But it is the best I can do until I reach land, by your providence." Shaky hands unwrapped the offering while trying to keep an old body on board by rather frequent grabs for wet railing. However, when the wrapper finally came apart, he lofted the two kilograms of horsemeat in the air slowly. Giving one cry of reverence, the old man tossed the offering into the sea just as another wave smashed against the deck.

The wave had risen up in front of him and smashed him backwards across the deck. He writhed there for a minute, trying unsuccessfully to get back to his feet. His battered, old body was having none of it; it was content to just lay on the deck. He managed to roll onto his stomach as a cry screeched across the wind. With a flash of lightning, old, rheumy eyes caught sight of a wave cresting ten feet over the deck.

"Poseidon, save me."

The wave pounded over the deck, catching the old man in its wake. The crewmen watched in helpless horror as the wave receded and the old man was nowhere to be seen.

"Man overboard!"

"Forget him! That dag was nothing but a superstitious idiot! Get in! Get inside before another wave comes along!"

The crewmen scrambled across the deck, keeping something solid nearby for something to grab onto. Most had made it halfway across the deck when the ship stopped bucking.

A few men blinked in surprise at the suddenly calm ocean around the ship. The wind died down to the merest of breezes. Each man looked around at his compatriots.

"Holy shit!"

Every head turned toward the bow as a frightened crewmember scooted bodily backwards. His heels tried to dig into the deck to get him back to the cabin faster.

Standing above the prow stood two majestic horses in front of an ornate, golden chariot. The horses were finely muscled and looked to be carved out of the purest white marble. The pair loomed over the prow, pink eyes glaring down at the seamen. However, what held the men's attention stood behind the horses, in the chariot.

Poseidon, God of the Sea, looked down upon the Australian men with eyes of unfathomable blue. His long, white hair and beard was woven with bits of kelp. A luminescent trident pointed down at the crewmen, the muscles on Poseidon's arms rippled like strands of swaying seaweed. When the god finally spoke, his voice sounded as powerful as the waves that had been crashing against the ship's hull.

"I have watched your progress across my waters. I have waited for my offerings with a patience unheard of for a god. You have no claim for safe passage. I have claimed the one worthy soul aboard as redeemable. Perish by the waves you live by."


Douglas Powell sauntered into the rec room of the Symkarian castle that was the base of Silver Sable International. The muscular American was fresh out of the showers after a particularly intense training session; Sable was worried her Wild Pack was becoming soft since the Intruders, her recently-formed super-powered team, were taking on some of the equally super-powered assignments. She feared complacency would work its way into her regular teams and had worked the thought of any easier time out of everybody's hide today. Powell could swear the tip of his ponytail hurt from the intensity today. Pushing any further memory of the day's events out of his mind, Powell crossed the room and snatched the remote off the top of the big screen television. With a bowl of popcorn neatly tucked under an arm and a six pack of Budweiser dangling from his fingers, he slid over to the couch.

He carefully plopped down and flicked the television on. He settled the bowl on his lap as he cycled through the channels. He stopped his rapid-fire channel changing when he hit ESPN2. Powell breathed a prayer of thanks for Quentino-created satellite dishes. Powell hadn't had any decent programming since Ms. Sable decided working anywhere in the States had to be profitable enough for her to even *consider* taking a job there.

He thought of his cousin, Sam, who was now working double-time to smooth the relations out between the U. S. government and Silver Sable International. Sable had a very dim view of things in the Unites States since her arrest and incarceration. Wonder how much Sam likes beatin' a dead horse? 'Cause when Ms. Sable makes up her mind, it's almost entirely made up for good.

That thought didn't bode well with Powell himself. He still had to change Sable's opinion of him enough to get her into bed with him. He had doubled his bet with Sandman for a time extension. Powell had six more months to try and saddle that philly. Though it seemed like Sandman was feeling pretty confident that he was going to win the bet; especially since some noticeable sparks had happened between the man made of sand and Ms. Sable recently. Munching on a handful of popcorn, Powell was unconcerned about that development. The sparks had cooled just as quick as they had appeared. Besides, all the Southerner had to do was turn on his natural charm. Sable would come around soon enough.

Powell's musing cut themselves short when he noticed what was going on in front of him. He had tuned into the finals of the World's Strongest Man telecast. The gimmick this year was running it live so no leaks about the winner would happen. The current contest was the keg toss. Filled kegs, with water Powell presumed because that would be an awful waste of beer, were being tossed over a twelve-foot high wall. The man who got to the highest point and got the keg over, won. Currently, some Native American man, named Chief Little Bear was vaulting a barrel easily over the 12 foot mark. There's nothin' *little* 'bout this man. Biggest Indian Ah ever seen.

There was a commotion off-camera. As the camera whipped around toward the commotion, a tall, mountain range of a man was shoving his way through the crowd. His immensely broad shoulders were covered by a cloak made up of some sort of animal pelt. Strong arming passed the security, the bright, Icelandic sunlight glinted off of golden gauntlets and arm and leg bands. Which history book did this fella fall outta? The wind tossled the intruder's curlly black hair as he strode toward the towering wall.

The stranger bellowed something in some foreign language. Powell couldn't quite place it; it sounded like Italian, Greek, or something. The dark-haired man's deep voice rolled through the speakers like a thick miasma.

A large hand reached forward, fingers crunching into the metal keg. With a one handed, overarm toss, the barrel sailed over the wall with a good 50 yards of clearance. The man turned toward the crowd, and grinned ferally. Chief Little Bear, who had been standing next to the wall, looked a bit intimidated as two treetunks that counted as arms swung up in a gesture of victory. More foreign words rolled out from the grin over the dark beard.

Herakles sighed when it was apparent none of the spectators had understood what he had. Dropping his hands to his sides, he concentrated. Unlike the most of the pantheon, he had never been verbally adequate outside of the Hellenic dialects. It took him a minute to form the foreign words on his tongue.

"You call yourselves the strongest men in the world." He paused, the English words sounding disorientating to his own ears. "I challenge all of you to prove your strengths against the strongest man to ever walk the mortal realm."

Herakles grinned down at Chief Little Bear. The chief looked up and feinted dead away.

Powell lurched to his feet, sending the bowl of popcorn clattering to the floor. "Sable's gotta know 'bout this."

He didn't know what she would do about this incident, but Powell figured his boss would do something helpful. After all, Sable could use the good PR.


Yoshikuni Takuya removed his hard hat and banged against the safety railing in frustration. The day had gone from stellarly progressive to abysmally halted. The production line had been moving at a great pace. 'Had' was the operative word. During the lunch break, some, he guessed American, stranger had managed to wander into the factory.

The man walked with a distinctive limp as one of his legs was slightly shriveled. However, what the man lacked in mobility, he made up for in upper body strength, or so Yoshikuni witnessed when the man hefted one of the finished cars off the line to look underneath.

The factory foreman grimaced as the large stranger toppled another car off of the line. Glass crunched over the audible silence of an entire factory of workers holding their breath. Yoshikuni ground his teeth together in frustration. Where was security? They should have already removed this trespasser from the grounds.

Yoshikuni smacked his hard hat against the railing again in aggravation. If nobody was going to do anything, it was now his duty as factory foreman to get rid of the limping disturbance. Sucking in a breath of canned, factory air, he made his way to the metal steps down to the production line floor. Putting his hard hat back on his head, he carefully made his way down the stairs. His shoes making small, clanking noises down each step.

Each step was becoming harder to take as he got closer to the bottom. This stranger was large, rivaling some of the biggest sumo wrestlers. Yoshikuni felt positively small and he was still only halfway down the steps.

The stranger was pulling the hood off of a car the hard way when a small task force of security came sprinting around the corner. They skidded to a halt as a black-painted hood whipped over their heads. As a unit, they paled, but the man Yoshikuni noticed as the head of security stepped forward. There was a slight tremor in the chief's hand as he shouted at the stranger.

The stranger ignored the warnings and continued to poke around inside the toppled car. The chief nodded at the rest of his unit. They carefully approached lowering their hands to their corporation-issued batons. The chief took his baton carefully out of its holster and carefully slid up behind the gargantuan man. He gently poked the man in the small of his back.

One meaty fist slammed into the security chief's chin, sending the man flying back into the rest of his unit. The security team scattered all over the floor like broken pins, slamming into metal and concrete.

Yoshikuni swallowed hard as the stranger turned back to the car he was slowly dismantling. He glanced over at the groaning pile of security flesh. An entire team of trained men had just been taken down by one swipe of the stranger's hand. How would he fare any better? In his mind, he wouldn't, but the responsibility of getting the production line back in order fell to him. Swallowing the enormous lump of fear lodged in his throat, the foreman staggered leaden feet down the last of the stairs.

The factory was eerily quiet. Every sound Yoshikuni heard was muffled except for his own footsteps and breathing. His hard-soled shoes clacked up behind the quiet dings and groans as the out-of-place man continued to take apart the Lexus. The factory foreman hesitated.

He could muscle his way up there, but looking at his rail thin arms, he doubted he would ever be more effective than the security team was. That was a team of six trained men; he was just a foreman. If he couldn't move something by yelling, he'd order somebody else to move it. Of course, the most qualified people to move this particular obstacle were at the moment, either unconscious or rolling on the ground groaning. There had to be a different track to take. What would work on a large, yet gimpy-legged man who was systematically ripping the parts out of a Lexus?

Hephaestus yanked another component of the mysterious contraption out and eyed it critically. It wasn't made all that sturdy as he crushed between his thumb and forefinger. He could make something stronger on his forge . . . wherever his forge was. He had been working on the next intricate piece of craftsmanship, a mechanical owl for Athena, when there was a bright flash and ungodly pain; he had come to consciousness inside this rather large building. The best he could figure was that this was some large temple to the Great Crafter. While it did flatter Hephaestus, it left him rather confused as to how far the Athenian movement toward more civil-themed buildings rather than mythological ones had gone.

The god of metal-working blinked when he felt a polite, yet insistent poke in the small of his back. Straightening up as much as his hunched back would allow, Hephaestus turned around to find nobody behind him. He heard the slight shuffle of feet and looked down, spotting a short mortal. The black-haired mortal began yammering in some tongue that the lame god could not quite understand. I'm a crafter, not a linguist. How does this small man expect me understand him?

Sighing to himself, Hephaestus concentrated. It took a few minutes but the words began to make sense. After a few minutes, the god of the forge smiled down at the factory foreman.

The corporate vice president flung the doors open, walking out to the assembly floor. He had received a frantic phone call from the factory foreman in the middle of his afternoon massage. After dragging himself out of the expert hands of the masseuse, he got his rubbery legs moving. Now, he was in no mood for any delays in production. If he didn't wrap this up soon, the CEO would come down on his head like a storm blowing down from Mount Fuji.

Walking with a stiff-legged gait that was supposed to convey power and decisiveness, but with the massage-induced weakness currently, it made him appear as a suited duck striding down the hall. He spotted a hesitant-looking security officer standing in the hallway. Cutting to the chase, he marched up to the nervous-looking man.

"Where is he?" the VP asked imperiously.

The security officer began to noticeably sweat. "Who?" There were several 'he's of importance in the factory at the moment.

"The intruder."

"He's in the foreman's office, sir."

"Good. The security chief has detained in the office?"

"No, sir. The foreman has him in there; the security chief is in the infirmary."

"The infirmary? Then who handled the intruder?"

"The foreman, sir."

The vice-president blinked and started toward the foreman's office. From what he could remember of Yoshikuni, the foreman had little presence and an even smaller physical stature. The foreman got the job done usually, but vice-president didn't pay attention to the particulars. The one personal meeting that he could remember, Yoshikuni struck him as an overly-fretful pipecleaner of a man. The vice-president boggled at how such an unremarkable man could have handled a problem he had previously begged the VP to handle.

Striding down the hallway, the rubberness had finally worked its way out of his legs as he drew closer to the glass door. Through the misted glass, Yoshikuni could be spotted fluttering around a massive bulk that hunched over the desk as the factory foreman excitedly continued to lay large sheaves of paper down in front of it. The vice-president paused outside of the door and noticed the bulk had ringlets of dirty brown hair.

Without preamble, the vice-president swung the door open. He was greeted by a pair of blazing eyes set in a quite homely face.

"What do you want?" Hephaestus voice rumbled over the vice-president at the cellular level.

The vice-president stood in the doorway, shaking. "N-nothing," he managed to stutter before quickly shutting the door. His hand shook uncontrollably as he removed it from the polished metal handle.

This situation was a bit beyond his control. The vice-president staggered slightly down the hallway, toward the nearest phone.


End Notes:
[1] I have watched the World's Strongest Man contests. The barrel toss is a staple event for the more recent ones, I believe.

[2] In naming the foreman, I went with Japanese standard of surname then given name, i.e. McIntyre Beverly.