Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is being made. As always – many thanks go to my betareader.
Feedback and flames are welcome.

*****

"Is this person really necessary?" The speaker threw a sullen glance at the hulking figure of the guard standing silently behind his host.

"Yes. May I offer you a cup of tea? Real Indian tea, excellent blend."

"Umm... no... I mean, yes. Thank you."

"Sugar?"

"No. Thank you."

"Well, you won't mind if I take some, I'm sure. Have a bit of a sweet tooth."

"Of course."

The silence descended on the small room, as the host relaxed in his plush armchair, sipping the steaming tea from a brightly colored cup. He was a fiftyish man in a sensible suit and equally sensible glasses; the brown hair with its dabs of silver around the temples gave him a distinguished air.

The large shadow behind him was that of his bodyguard. A young man with white hair was standing lightly, just to the side of the open window, his eyes carefully not looking directly at the two other men, but nevertheless keenly aware of every sound and movement. The bodyguard had many names. He entered the employ of the bespectacled man under his real name – Nathan, deciding not to bother his employer with such trivialities such as the fact his nom de guerre was Cable and he was considered a highly dangerous mutant terrorist by at least 31 countries.

He sighed mentally, throwing a sidelong look at his charge, who was still calmly drinking his tea. Looking at him, one could hardly believe that Robert Kelly was a presidential candidate -- a presidential candidate fully aware of at least three separate groups trying to assassinate him. Well, three that they were sure of, at least. It was entirely possible that the portly, perspiring man in the other chair was responsible for another such plan, of which they had only circumstantial evidence. But it was doubtful in Cable's private opinion. Kelly was drowning in the polls. Neither Platt Roushe nor the people he represented had any reason to liquidate him that messily. Of course, one never knew.

As if hearing Cable's thoughts, Roushe shifted in his chair, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Nathan sighed quietly. It appeared that the shadow chief of staff for Paul Jenkins, the Republican Party nominee, was in no hurry to get to the point. A pity since there was nothing more in the world Cable wanted at this moment than strip off his shirt and change the bandage on his side. Well, that and a few hours of meditation. Gaunt did a fine job of working him over. Touching the aching side discreetly, Cable resisted the desire to probe Roushe. He was fairly confident that the scanners in the lobby would have noted something as electronically sophisticated as psi-netting, but on the other hand this was hardly a life or death situation that required him to risk tipping his hand. He frowned again, reminding himself for yet another time to look into the devices. The psi-nets surfaced several years ago, quickly finding a secure if a severely limited niche in the market despite the hideous costs and fragility. So far they were the only inorganic, portable way to detect someone performing a telepathic probe on you. Useful little toys.

As Roushe shifted again and made some idle, stalling comment Cable used the time to run a brief internal-scan. Again. He knew he was being paranoid and yet he couldn't help himself. The last few months were... exciting. Too exciting by half for his taste, he thought sourly, wincing a little as his mind made contact with the familiar cold presence at his core. No... it seemed the technorganic virus was still dormant, or at least as dormant as it ever was. Relief failed to come, just as it had failed to materialize after the last time Nathan made this analysis, and the time that his conclusions were confirmed by Blaquesmith.. and Rachel... and Jean... and Beast. Excitement was vastly overrated, he thought again. As was the time travel.

Battle with the Undying entities, trips to potential futures, the duel with Gaunt, the warlord who imprisoned Rachel to entice him into combat – he barely had time to heal before another conflict would present itself. And then back home he was. With most of the people unaware that he was gone for more than a day and now had a whole new interesting set of scars developing to add to his collection. Most people including everyone in this building.

Gaunt was the last straw, he supposed. Playing with his mind to convince him that the virus was out of control, barely months after that indeed took place, had an unsettling effect. It should pass with time, or so people kept telling him. Stop worrying. Just an aftereffect, there are no 'vibrations' coming from the virus. Riiight. Either the TO was mutating, or he was going nuts. Why worry?

Roushe was saying something again. Bright Lady, but that man irritated him. On other hand it was surprising how much men like Roushe reminded him of the politics back home, in the future. Every epoch has its own dirtbags. Somehow that thought cheered him up, restoring his faith in the universe. He suppressed a grin at the image of Roushe in the Assembly, or holding his own in the corridors of power of New Cannan. The humor fled as he glanced at the man. * He would, too. *

"Yes, Senator, I agree it is rather warm. Should we discuss the amazing Redskins comeback next, or perhaps you could get to the point?"

*Well, here we go. Come on, Nate, back to reality. ... and if you could stop talking to yourself, that'd be great too. Any time now.*

Roushe shifted again and put down the untouched cup of tea. "Yes, Mr. Kelly.. perhaps that would be for the best."

"Senator Kelly."

"Pardon?"

"I hold the position of US Senator, as do you Senator Roushe. And I suspect this is not a social call. So I suggest we keep this within the bounds of protocol."

Cable grinned mentally, still a picture of impassivity outwards. * Why how very petty, Senator Kelly. Nicely set tone for the rest of the meeting, too. To listen to you one might actually believe you had any bargaining chips. *

Roushe's lips curled as if he had bitten into a piece of a rotten meat, "Of course... Senator Kelly. I apologize."

"Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. Now, how may I be of assistance to you?"

Platt Roushe leaned forward, the wet spots under the arm-pits of an expensive suit becoming visible for a moment. "Actually, Senator Kelly it is I... my associates and I who may be of help to you. I am simply a messenger for a group of very influential people, you see."

*Well Golly Gee as Drake would put it, I am so flonqing surprised a feather would knock me of my feet. What's next? The Elvis is really dead? *

"You don't say. And how what do these powerful people want to help me, exactly?"

Roushe leaned out still farther, making Cable worry briefly that the Republican was going to fall out of his chair. "I am here to offer you the White House."

*...pipe and bloody hellfire, I love this democracy thing! *

***
"Heehee! Take that you foul American capitalist pig! Feel the power of the Bedlam Triple Decker Super Sonic Demolition Juggernaut High Kick Hurricane!"

"You have much to learn, grasshoppah... although I must say I am impressed with your lung capacity, to say all that in one sentence. Now watch this."

"Git 'im, Thom." Mick jumped up excitedly and encouragingly punched Peregrine in the shoulder. The latter grunted reproachfully. "Quiet in the cheap seats." Off in the corner Joakim looked up from his book momentarily to ruefully shake his head. "You should be ashamed, Thomas. Robbing the children like that."

"C'mon, Jess, kick his butt!" Bedlam sighed and rolled his eyes, as Thom winked at him understandingly. Wisely deciding to ignore Tabitha altogether, Jesse concentrated on crushing the lowly upstart who dared to challenge his Mastery. "Lowly upstart! You dare to challenge my Mastery?!"

Nick snickered, coming out from the kitchen with a pile of sandwiches carefully balanced on a wobbling trey, "He dares, he does. Always with the daring Thom is. He's unpleasant that way. Yo, Sam – tuna or peanut butter?"

"Ummm... Peanut butter." Grabbing a pair of sandwiches Guthrie passed one to Joakim, "And I think you're underestimating Jesse. Gravely so. And that shall be your undoing, O Pale and Gravely Underestimating One. For he is the master of..."

"Kiiia! Flawless Victory."

"Huh? Wait… What just happened here? Waitasec…"

Thom looked at Bedlam, somberly making a small bow. "You have fought bravely, young... sucka!" Rubbing two fingers under Jesse's chin, Peregrine continued in a high, nasal voice, "Gimme. Gimee, gimme, gimme! Show me zeee money!"

Bedlam was staring fixedly at the TV screen in the middle of which a bright red sign was still flashing cheerily, proclaiming him a loser. "I don't believe this. I don't... I don't lose in 'Bloody Slaughter!' I never lose! Especially – flawless! I wanna rematch! Right here, right now!"

"Saaay… double or nothin'?"

"Bring it on! Umm... Jimmy? Spot me a fiver? What? Where are you going?! I'm good for it!"

The loud shot from the other side of the closed door, swiftly decreased the volume of the conversation in the main room, for a short while at least.. Romany and Malchus had been closeted in the small study for days, periodically emerging only to grab a pot of coffee and yell for quiet – which was mostly an exercise in futility with the amount of people currently camping out in the X-Force apartment. Then, the last time she surfaced, Romany meaningfully took a gun with back with her. Everybody got the hint. At the moment everybody was also hoping that neighbors wouldn't call the cops on them again. Everyone except for Pete, that is. Because Pete was a calm, unflappable sort of a leader. And he helped to soundproof the apartment.

Skirting the crowd around the game-console, Wisdom pushed the kitchen door shut behind himself. Sighing he leaned against the wall for a second and closed his eyes. He stood there for several seconds before swearing quietly, and going to bend over the sink.

"You ok?"

Pete grunted, splashing some cold water on his face before turning the valve off and looking back over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm dandy."

"I can tell." Domino coolly appraised the familiar, slightly disheveled figure as Pete dried his face with a towel. Throwing the wet paper ball in the sink, Wisdom glared at her. "Wot?"

"You want me to tell you?" Domino folded her arms, matching the glare. "Do you really?"

"Not awfully much, no. But you will anyway. You people always do."

Domino's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I will let that go, Wisdom. Just this once."

"You're all heart." Pete hooked one of the stools with his foot and straddled it, grabbing a bagel with one hand. "So enlighten me. What the hell crawled up your arse and sicced you on me this particular day?"

"Your completely fucked up attitude for one. Mind telling me what the hell is your problem?"

Pete snorted and reached over to the jacket lying in a crumpled heap on the kitchen table. After a few seconds of digging he produced a small flat flask and unscrewed it with one quick motion.

"Jesus, Pete. It's not even noon yet."

"It is somewhere. And I distinctly remember not marrying you so butt the fuck out, Dom."

"No, I don't think so. See... I could really give a crap about whatever is bugging you. But. You took responsibility for those kids out there, when you waltzed in and took over. I don't care if you're dead, alive or marinating in your own piss – get the hell off it!"

"What are you ranting about, you crazy bitch?"

"Sam. And Tab. And even Jimmy. Hell, if you'd been half-conscious the last couple of days you might have noticed that they haven't said more than 5 sentences to you each day."

Pete took a long gulp from the flagon, shuddering slightly as the liquid seared his throat. "I noticed."

"And?!"

"And what? What the hell do you want me to do? Go play mommy? So I'm only mostly dead. How many ways can I tell it? They'll get over it eventually. Hell, they're second generation X-Men, this is an accepted fact of life to them."

Domino started angrily and then paused just as suddenly, giving Pete a humorless grin. "All right...Very nice. Very, very nice. Almost got me. So why are you trying to tick me off, Wisdom?"

Pete took another draught, squinting as the sunlight suddenly flooded the small room. Wordlessly he wiped the flask with his sleeve and offered it to Domino. The latter shook her head in rejection, still watching him with an almost predatory focus. Pete shrugged indifferently and made the whiskey disappear.

Rubbing his face he sighed, his voice suddenly tired. "You know what's going on with them, Dom, just as well as I do. Those three got screwed like few do, even in our business. Little soldiers, my arse. I don't care what you say, picking up a bunch of 14 -year olds and starting to make a fucking SWAT team out of them, only because they can fly... what did Xavier think, they were going to grow up nice, ordinary, well-adjusted members of society? Riiight. Because, Christ knows, the first batch of X-Men are a picture of stability. And then.. hell, Dom, they got abandoned by every father figure they ever had. Chuckie The Billiard Head, Magneto, your mattress buddy – all bailed on 'em. And in Jimmy and Tab's case... you know."

Pete raised his head, looking at Domino with red rimmed, insomniac's eyes. She was still standing, leaning against the door, watching him silently. Leaving his seat Pete turned his back to her and, clasping his hands behind his back, stopped in front of the window, watching the small figures of children dart across the road in the midst of a soccer game. "And then there is Sam. I don't know how that bald geek picked him out for a leader at just 16 but damn... That boy's got the best head for small unit tactics I've seen in a long time. But fuck does he get attached easily. I read up on them all of course but... I didn't think it would be that bad. Guthrie has an innate need to be a part of the family, not simply a military unit. That's good to an extent. Unless the team takes casualties at rate X-Force does. Or goes through major line-up changes as often. The boy decided to grow himself a shell. About time."

Turning around, Pete fixed Domino with an irritated glare, "So fuck off. You'd not want to get all huggy in their place either, knowing I'm gonna be in the market for a stylish new coffin in a month or so."

"Well, that's nice. Thanks for the free trip to the Wisdom World. Now mind actually answering my question?"

"What the hell do you want? I did!"

"Well you certainly talked a lot. Rather refreshing really -- when Nate tries to change the topic he goes all withdrawn and moody. I'm assuming you're already past that stage?"

"Oh, for crap's sake..."

"Good. 'cos you know you've got squat on Logan. Last time he decided to get all secretive I had to track him clear across Yukon."

"Why don't you go and develop another abnormal growth or something, huh, Dom.? This Den Mother routine is getting old fast."

Domino's eyes narrowed dangerously and she moved suddenly, covering the short distance between her and Wisdom in two strides.

"You must have me confused with Kitty.. No, wait... Oh that's right! She left you too! Hmm... I wonder why? Must be your sunny personality. But on the other hand – I don't give a good goddamn! Listen to me very carefully, Pete. These are my kids out there. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let them get killed because you decided to play at being angst-boy. So either you go and straighten this mess up, or I will! But you better believe I'm not about to let you fuck with their concentration while Tsung is out there."

Pete raised an eyebrow sardonically at the finger that was only inches away from his eyeball.

"There is nothing more dangerous that a first-year psych student, you know that, Dom? What, did you take a course in college? I'm all broken up that you don't care about me and I will immediately seek redemption by sharing my innermost feelings with you. Riiiight.... Go away."

"Fine! Play at being a fucking victim." Wheeling around Dom stalked toward the door, snarling disgustedly. She didn't see as Pete's gaze grew heavy and absent, looking unseeingly at his hands. Neither did she see as his lips quirked suddenly into a frustrated grimace.

"I'm tired, Dom."

The sudden, quiet phrase stopped Domino dead in her tracks with her fingers on the door-handle. Slowly she turned around, staring and Pete almost unbelievingly "...what?"

"I am tired. Always tired, lately. Hard to keep focused. And it hurts like a blighter..."

"What does?"

"Everything. Headaches especially. And every time I try to make the hot-knives it's sending me into a fookin' coma." Pete sighed, absently rubbing his right hand. "I don't know what that crazy, pasty-faced hag did to me back in Otherside but I am betting this is all because I got here earlier than planned. And then this whole fiasco..."

"Have you told Romany? Or Malchus?"

"No. And you won't either. She's liable to do some hocus-pocus again, and I ain't too sure she can take another so soon after. I'll make do... Hell they as much as told me, nothing but Tsung or his kaput can take me out."

"So that's what's been eating you."

"No." Pete swore softly and once again abandoned his perch to pace agitatedly across the small room. "I got taken like a fucking amateur! By a decoy! That bastard got me with the trick that a ten-year-old should have seen coming! And now he probably knows everything! Seen everyone. Complete with colorful illustrations. Fuck! Dammit! Just... argh!"

The sound of children's laughter carried faintly but quite clearly from the street, as Pete ran out of air and curses. The laughter was cut off briefly by a car horn and an irritated voice, yelling at someone. Soon enough though, the unmistakable noise of kids' playing resumed. Pete paused for a second, to look out the window at the gaggle of kids yelling at each other over the soccer ball. He sniffed, muttering something under his breath and then turned frowning as a strange sound from the vicinity of the door drew his attention back to Domino. As he took in the sight of her, his nostrils flared angrily, "What's so freaking funny?"

The pale mercenary was still leaning against the door-frame, her right hand grasping her left side, the lips parted in silent laughter. As she saw Pete's irritated expression, she gasped audibly and let out a loud giggle, sliding to the floor and waving her hand helplessly.

"What?!"

Domino gasped, at Pete's question, absently wiping the tears streaming down her face, with the back of her hand. "You... You... come back...from the... dead... and you are freaked... 'cos.. Oh, my God.. Oh, this is good... 'cos you got... played! Oh Lord... Oh, God, you English are sore losers! Oh.. I can't.. I can't breathe... "

Pete frowned at the pale woman, the corners of his mouth quirking with reluctant beginnings of a smile. "Shut up."

"I... mean... Oh.. Jeez, Pete... Hahahah!!"

The door to the kitchen suddenly flew open and Tabitha stormed in, her hand glowing with the bio-plasma being gathered, Proudstar's worried face looking over her shoulder.
That was enough to set off Domino into fresh gales of laughter, with Pete close behind. Meltdown uncertainly took in the sight of the pair and, shaking her head, let the plasma dissipate. Rolling her eyes disgustedly, she marched back out the door. "Old people! Jeez!"

***

Halfway around the world another meeting was taking place in a small room, deep in the bowels of the once very imposing building. The room was bare and sparsely furnished. The cracked plaster and dull shade of the wall paint contributed to the overall impression of decline and deterioration. The trails on the walls, where the paint is lighter, and on the floor where the dust is less, hinted to observant eyes that cabinets and paintings... or perhaps portraits, had been removed.

The blinds were closed tightly and the solitary source of light, an old-fashioned table-lamp, threw a protective circle over the small portion of the room around the desk.. By accident or by design two people in the room were both outside of that circle. The light sparkled as it hit the glassy surface of the liquid in a half-empty, open bottle standing in the middle of the table. The floor creaked as one of the people empties the small glass and leaned forward in the chair to slam it on the desk, by the bottle, "Arh. Strong stuff."

"Rat poison. Kills your liver."

"Just so."

The lighted part of the wall came alive for a moment as the second man shifts in his chair, sending his shadow into a wild dance for a split second.

"Another?"

"No. Thanks."

"Well then... Perhaps to business then, Simyeon?"

"Yes, Indeed, perhaps we should."

The pause stretched until one of the men grunts and cracks his knuckles. "I've asked for this meeting, Alexei, because I am in need of assistance."

The man behind the desk remained motionless save for a short hand motion, inviting the other to continue. Accidentally his hand brushes by the lamp, upsetting it and spilling the light on the two conversationalists as it flickers back and forth in an uneven arcs. It reveals the two men, facing each other across the simple black desk.

One was dressed in a pair of trousers and a sweater. His head was shaven, making his face seem longer and more sinister as it is framed by a blue-black beard, the light brown eyes half-hidden behind bushy brows. The sweater was loose but even so the man gave off an impression of bearish health and strength. Only the lines around his eyes and the eyes themselves betrayed his age. While he might look like a man of 50, it took Simyeon Borisovitch Kurasov almost 66 years to become the Tsar of the Moscow underworld.

The man across him was smaller in stature, clothed in simple pants and shirt. Unlike Kurasov he looked worn, with some gray among the shortly cut hair and the eye-patch covering his right eye deepened the impression of hardness emanating from him.

Grabbing the lamp Kurasov steadied it and sunk back into his chair. "As I said, I came to ask your help."

"You came to ask my help before, Simyon. I gave you my answer then."

"Yes. I remember. Still, I believe this time things are different. Our interests coincide and your precious sense of duty will not be compromised. Besides... you owe me, Alesha."

"So, you finally decided to call in that marker... Took you long enough."

"Magadan. Yes." Kurasov narrowed his eyes slightly, peering through the shadows. "So, Colonel.... What will it be?"

The darkens seems to deepen and suddenly Colonel Alexei Mikhailovitch Vazhin - isn't. Suddenly he's again the green lieutenant traded in as a pawn in one of the countless Kremlin intrigues.

Magadan. Suddenly he's back there.

Suddenly he's back in the camp and Igor Tragov is coming at him with the home-made cutter. The guard is looking the other way. Tragov's dogs are holding his arms behind him and the cold Siberian wind is tearing at his face...

Magadan..

He's back there hanging limply, feeling the warm, stench of Tragov's breath on his face. He's there as the hulking figure appears from the snow, felling Tragov with one blow and sending the flunkies running with one contemptuous glare from behind the bushy coal-black brows.

He's there, only half-conscious as his savior raises him off the ground to his shoulders and brushes past the guard toward the compound. "Fucking politicals. More trouble than you're worth. Shoulda let you get gutted. Woulda too. Your luck it gave me the chance to fuck that punk Tragov over. Hey? Political? You alive? Come on... we'll get you inside, some tea... gonna be fine. Just fine."

Magadan.

Colonel Alexei Vazin blinked the memories of more than thirty years away and reached for the bottle. "Talk."

***
Luckily he managed to get a taxi right away. Logan did not fancy the prospect of employing public transportation even with his meager luggage. On this warm July morning the buses and the trolley cars would be packed as everyone would be trying to get to work or the markets. People piled in wall to wall with barely a place to stand, the stink of sweat and ripe food-produce and of course the inevitable temper tantrums.

Luckily he managed to get a taxi right away. Unluckily the driver appeared to be atypical of the men Logan remembered from his last trip. He wanted to talk. A lot. After the man, Piotr, produced pictures of his children, Logan resigned himself to the chatter and closed his eyes, going over the plan of action. The ride from Sheremetievo airport to the hotel was long enough for that. Acting on rather sparse amount of information the plan was somewhat simple. Make contact with Armen and go from there. As he registered his thoughts wandering again as to what the appearance of Kitty's spacesuit on the Russian black-market could mean, Logan grimaced and opened his eyes, looking out the window, while the driver droned on, apparently quite content with hearing his own voice.

It didn't take long for the changes to become apparent. He expected as much, it'd been almost six years since he was last in Russia. He followed the situation here as best he could and knew that things changed. He never realized to what extent. Gone was the monopoly of Volgas and Zhigulis, that used to be the mainstay of a meager but existing private automobile market. Now they sometimes seemed to be almost lost amongst the traffic consisting of Volvos and Fords. With no few BMWs. Gone were the dreary lines next to the stores, weaving around the blocks. Several buildings he remembered all too well seemed to be repainted, the familiar red flag gone, exchanged for the tri-color of the old empire and a new Russia.

But mostly what caught his attention was the feeling in the wind. Nothing spectacular, simply the... impression. The people seemed happier, somehow. Not depressed resignation to whatever else might befall them, but actually optimistic. The sounds of laughter, the couples strolling by... He snorted uncertainly and leaned back in the seat. As the car turned inside the courtyard of a hotel he reached for the door handle, pausing slightly as the great painting on the side of a tall building next to the inn caught his eyes. The new President, smiling benevolently down from the height of 20-stories, the familiar pale, watery eyes and a hand raised in greeting. "The more things change..."

The price for the room was just shy of high way robbery, apparently another tradition that hadn't changed. Since time immemorial the Moscovites looked on foreigners as a prime mark just begging to be fleeced. If he had time, Logan would spend it finding a room outside the city in a private house – the food would be better, the people friendlier and his wallet thicker. But time... time was one thing he didn't have. Every day meant the trail growing colder. So instead he settled for putting the fear of God into the concierge to at least insure the best possible suite for the money. Logan opened the door and gave it a cursory inspection. The spacious well lit main room overlooking the Tverskaya street flowed smoothly into a small bedroom, almost completely filled up by the bed and two small cabinets. Logan tsked as he motioned to the bellboy to put his bag in the sofa and tipped him. "Not bad. All right, where is the damn phone?"

"There is one in the bedroom, sir."

"Grand. All right, here is another twenty, if someone comes looking for me or asking about me, I want to know about it pronto, got it?"

"Yes, sir! Any other way I can be of assistance – simply ask for Gleb."

"I'll keep it in mind. Your English isn't half bad, by the way, kid."

"My complements on your Russian as well, sir."

"You're a good liar. All right, scram."

***
Hearing a sharp rap on the counter, Pete raised an inquiring eyebrow at the familiar, blonde head in the door. Tabitha scowled in reply, looking suspiciously at him and Domino. "If you two are quite finished with memory trip down senility lane...."

"What is it?"

"Romany is out. Says they've got something... Ey! Do not be running over the Tab! Animals."

Still grumbling a little Tabitha followed the pair into the living room. As she entered she shivered suddenly and stopped by the door, hugging herself. The blue eyes were pensive and troubled as she looked over the gathering. She shivered again, feeling irritation welling up in the pit of her stomach. The day was sunny, the air-conditioner was barely functional, Tsung -- or whoever it was that wore his face and tried to tear her head off – was safely dead. She was not cold. She had no reason to be scared.

As if laughing at her the shiver once again ran its course up her spine, raising her hackles. Meltdown bit her lip slightly and stubbornly forced her muscles to relax. *Nerves. Maybe my schedule is off and I'm getting my period early... nah, that's bull. Jess is keeping a better count of it than I do and since he's not avoiding me or talking about another vacation in fun-filled Utah.... Nerves. I'm getting to be as bad as Sam – and I don't even get the perks of being the honcho! So unfair. I never get to say cool stuff like 'To me my X-Men' or 'Spoooooon!' Sucks to be me. No fun at all. *

She snickered quietly, watching Thom and Jimmy unite forces suddenly and advance on Mick, bravely defying the deadly spatula in her hand. Shaking her head she moved to join the rest of the two teams clustered around Romany. The older Wisdom sibling was curled up comfortably in a stuffed chair in the middle of the room, her eyes glinting with catlike contentment as she waited for the noise to die down. As she sunk cross-legged to the floor, Tabitha noted with some puzzlement the tall dark figure quietly exiting the room. She frowned unsure of where or why Malchus was going, but then Romany coughed meaningfully and Tab pushed the question to the back of her mind, to deal with later.

***

The screen door creaked slightly when Malchus pushed it closed. He sighed and shook out a single cigarette from the pack swiped from Pete's stash. Narrowing his eyes slightly against the sun coating the San Francisco streets with a brilliant golden sheen Malchus paused for a second, his hand lightly gripping the lighter. Turning his head slightly he glanced back inside, noting the faces losing their carefree expressions, shedding them and letting the practiced masks slide in place. He sighed again, a little shocked by how small they seemed to make the room. Not by their size, although in Peregrine's and Warpath's case it wasn't for any lack of trying. Nor were the numbers the sole reason, even though ten people did stretch the limits of the room a bit, spacious as it was. No, it was something else. Something about them that seemed to fill the room... nothing he could have put into words.

Shaking his head, Malchus turned away as Romany continued to speak. Leaning over the balcony, he lit the cigarette, enjoying the view. The warm wind, the narrow street, the noise of the playing kids, the shadows and the light intertwining in stark contrast and in a shockingly fitting pattern, with the sunlight painting the white walls of the building into a strange, mad mosaic ... it reminded him of Rome. Strange that... How one could hate and love something that much at the same time. But there it was. There he was. He let the smoke out, watching with hooded eyes as the nicotine cloud hung before his face for a second before dissipating into thin wisps. The Eternal City... Maybe it was its stubborn refusal to die that had drawn his admiration. Burned, raped, sacked, mutilated – it hung on. From capital to ghost town, from center of the world to tourist trap and backwater of Europe – it remained. Like him. He had many favorites. Beautiful places, the spots of great memories. The burial grounds of friends... the burial grounds of enemies. But in the end it was Rome that he loved the most. Not Jerusalem, not even the.... well perhaps Her.... yes... perhaps Her. She was in his blood after all. Even after all these years he could feel her heat in his veins. Ever present at his core. Reminding him from whence he came.

The desert.

God willing, She was still fond of him.

Closing his eyes Malchus reached out with his senses, looking for it. It took a while as the metal and stone taste of the city gave way to the salty, barely perceptible sea breeze. He reached farther, feeling every other sound and smell reduced to a dull 'mass' in the back of his head. He reached farther, past the chilly draught from Sierra Madre until he finally felt it. As the welcoming kiss on his brow, the warm embrace of a long lost friend – he felt it. Just a slight, weak gust carried by chance from the borders of Mojave, but it would do.

He flicked the cigarette away and leaned farther in, concentrating. Catching the rhythm of the wind he focused his mind on a familiar figure, picturing him as he saw him last, hunched over the fire, old battered cloak over his shoulders. "Cass... Cass, I need you."

As the bond faded and he slumped back exhausted, he could have sworn he heard a soft whisper. "Could your precious Rome do this for you, my dear?"

***
"I can not."

"They are killing my men, Mongoose."

"I can't."

"THEY ARE KILLING MY MEN!"

The intern hurrying down the corridor with a pile of papers jumped and dropped the stack as the deafening roar much like that of a wounded bear suddenly erupted from behind one of the closed doors. Picking up, the recently orderly and consecutively arranged papers, Boris sprinted down the corridor at a speed his PE teacher would have never believed possible.

"I HEARD YOU! I told you already – there is nothing I can do!" Vazhin was leaning forward across the table, gripping the edge of the desk tightly enough that his knuckles turned white, the muscles on his neck taut as he wrestled his voice back under control. His upper lip curling in a snarl, he continued in a dangerously low voice, never taking his eyes off Kurasov, "Do you think I am working in this hovel because I have a nostalgic weakness for it, eh? I. Am. Out. Of. The. Fucking. Loop." Swallowing forcefully, Vazhin sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a second, before sinking back into his chair. "For now at least. This new guy, he thinks he's going to do better by bringing in his own people. And the Kommitet never liked the Otdel 13 - so they are just as happy to leave me out now. Pass me off as part of the Old Guard. New names, same game. I am getting back, but it takes time. And money. And I have nothing to give you now. Nothing."

He raised his eyes challengingly back at the large man standing on the other side of the table. Kurasov was just standing there, silent now after his outburst a second ago, the great shoulders trembling with suppressed rage, his face a dangerous shade of crimson. After a tense moment the shoulders slumped, and Simyeon seemed smaller somehow, more tired. "My men, Alesha. They're dying. All over the city." The whisper touched something in Alexei's soul, the broken note seemed so... unnatural coming from Kurasov. The big man continued, looking with hard, heavy eyes directly at him, "He was nothing. Pacoste, scum. Just another former Kommitet man who decided to go freelance. Nothing! And then... he got a hand feeding him. I know the signs, Mongoose! And it's not just his KGB connections. Someone with access to stuff that FSB (Federal Security Service, the heir of KGB - Doqz) would chew their right arm off to keep secret. And money. Serious money. And even men. Not a lot. But quality. I don't know who and I don't know why. But I am not a fool! Vasiliy Parkov.." Kurasov spat the name out as if it was a piece of rotten fruit. "He could have never lasted a month in the City. And yet he lasted five years. And yesterday he finished off Karamovich. Burned him alive, with his family. He is a mad dog! He wants everything. And trust me, Mongoose – you don't want him running this City."

"I don't want you running this City either."

Kurasov's eyes narrowed, almost disappearing behind the brows, and his voice dropped even lower than before, "Is that your answer then?"

"I already told you – I cannot help you. I don't have the resources, dammit! You don't think I noticed him? You don't think I tried already?! One of mine is missing in the City right now, damn you! Because Parkov's fucks gunned her down in the middle of the day! I can do NOTHING!"

"He has powerful weapons, Neo weapons among them. And he started near their turf."

Too late Vazhin remembered that Kurasov had never lost a poker game. He always knew the perfect time to pull the trump. The Neo. He looked at Kurasov, still keeping the mask of impotent anger in place. He fought down the thought that the mask was not _that_ far from reality. If Parkov was a front for the Neo... The thought was chilling. A simple turf war and rearrangement of the Moscow underworld was one thing. But the clearing the capital of Neo, with the help of X-Men, was his centerpiece in the Game, the fundament of the carefully laid plans that were going to bring him back from the shadowy corners to the hub of things. If it went south... another thing that hasn't changed and probably never would - if you made a misstep in your play for the ear of the Big Man and lived to regret it, you counted yourself lucky. At a certain level losing one move meant losing it all. And he was way past that level now. Fuck... all he needed was three days. Three quiet days. "I can not give you money. And I don't have enough men myself."

"Give me a name. I want to know who is backing him. It can't be Neo alone. The capital is coming from somewhere else."

"Done. What else?"

"Anything you can."

Vazhin frowned, tapping his fingers slowly as he considered. Swearing suddenly under his breath he reached down under the chair abruptly, coming up with a telephone. Setting the machine on the table he forcefully punched in a number, impatiently tsking as he waited for someone to pick up. When the familiar voice finally answered Alexei paused for a second, second guessing the decision for a split second, before speaking. "It's me, Valentine. Yes. I have a client for you. No, not the State. Private sector. Very, very private sector. The usual place, tomorrow at 9. I won't. Your client. Oh, I wouldn't worry, Thibodeau. You'll recognize him."

***
"Nice place." Logan said and downed another glass of wine. "Definitely a step up from the last one."

"Ah yes." The dark-skinned man to his left sighed and absently filled Logan's glass again. "My beautiful 'Paradise' is no more. Burned down two years ago."

"I heard. Sorry 'bout that."

"Don't be, my friend! You are right. This new place, 'The Tambourine' -- it's much better, yes?" Armen's face fell a little as he surveyed the people dancing below. "It is strange though. I miss the old one sometimes. Yes... Strange are the ways of Allah. Another drink?"

"Sure." Logan watched Armen surreptitiously as his host followed suit and emptied his own glass. Wolverine was quite sure that Armen was not trying to get him drunk. They had established the fact that Logan could consume unbelievably vast quantities of alcohol with no noticeable effect. He grinned, remembering Baku. No, Armen was just being his usual hospitable self. No use in hurrying him along. The little Georgian had his own firm view of priorities, the chief among them being - no business on an empty stomach. So sitting through dinner was pretty much a no-choice affair.

Logan shrugged mentally and helped himself to another plate of the salad. Alima Dumbadze was as great a cook as her husband was a businessman. Logan threw another glance at his friend, who was getting steadily more maudlin – in direct proportion to the speedily disappearing wine. A shrewd trader, was Armen Dumbadze. Whether it was legal or not. Not a slouch when the business got a little ugly either. But he fervently tried not to let things go that far. Not an easy task, with him being a Georgian in Russia and all. Much like the Latinos in the US, the Caucasus peoples had to battle a considerable amount of racism, especially in these days when the Second Chechnya War was claiming still more lives. But... Armen survived. Always. An odd little man who converted to Islam 20 years ago and stubbornly refused to abandon his newfound faith, no matter the threats... of course he took some tenants a bit more seriously than others. But you couldn't ask a Georgian to give up his wine and honestly expect to succeed. There are limits.

And he was a good friend. Good enough for Logan to drop everything and travel half the world when he got Armen's message. Logan sighed a little impatiently as Dumbadze launched into yet another tirade about the good old days. "Eh.. Armen? How about we take a look at the piece now."

"Of course, my friend. Of course! Come with me! Come!"

The trip from Armen's office to the storage room required a considerable amount of effort. The blinking lights and the raging techno rhythms were rather uncomfortable for someone with Logan's extra-sharpened senses. The smell of sweat of the tightly packed crowd deafened almost every other scent, worsening Logan's mood, since he felt effectively blinded.

"It's right in here!"

Logan nodded once to indicate that he heard Armen over the noise and determinedly made his way through the crowd. As the door of the storage room slammed shut behind him, a small sigh of relief escaped him. The room was soundproof.

"Busy out there today, yes? Ah, to be young again."

"It's overrated."

"You are a sour, sour, sad little man, my friend. Probably because you can't get drunk."

"Yeah, that's probably it."

Armen shook his head and disappeared between the shelves that filled out the room in neat rows. "Let me se now... B4... C1... C2... Merciful Allah, I had not realized just how prosperous I have become. Look at all this crap."

"The true mark of success."

"Oh, shut up. Aha! This is it."

Emerging from the murky depths of the storage, Armen grunted a little as he put down the wooden crate he was carrying
. "Inside."

::snikt::

"Ai! How many times do I have to tell you - that's plain disgusting."

Letting the unending stream of Armen's words wash over him, Logan expertly made the top of the crate into so many splinters. Reaching inside he dug into the Styrofoam, finally grasping something that felt heavy and metallic even through the wrapping foil.

Untangling the covering material Logan asked quietly, "Who put it up?"

"Ruchenko." For a moment it seemed as if Armen was hesitant, unsure. "Vitali Ruchenko."

Holding what appeared to be the arm part of the suit, Logan gently ran his finger along the smooth metallic, green and purple surface, feeling the intricate work of the joint mechanism. He sniffed slightly, the familiar scent wafting at him, faint but still there. "I'm gonna have to have a talk with this Ruchenko guy."

Armen Dumbadze sighed, the usually ever-present mirth fleeing his face. He sat heavily on the nearby crate, reaching inside his jacket for a cigarette. "How did I know you were going to say that?" He queried glumly.

***
Finally, Kurasov left. No thanks had been offered, they understood each other too well. Vazhin sighed and rubbed his eyepatch for a couple of seconds before firmly grabbing the telephone again. "Hello? Yes, it's me. I need you to dig something up for me. Yeah. Yeah. Someone is sponsoring an up and coming thug in the City. Parkov. Oh you heard did you? Somebody well monied and not afraid to spend it. Yeah. I realize that, just see what you can find. And do it fast."

Alexei put down the phone and sighed again, trying to concentrate on the paper in front of him "That's it. No more interruptions. This is not that hard. I just made a mistake here somewhere, that's all. Just focus and recheck it ... fuck, I hate math."

The phone rung.

Vazhin pointedly ignored it.

The phone rung again. Vazhin threw down the pen and glared balefully at the ringing machine.

Just as the phone was starting ringing again, Vazhin made a desperate grab for it. "What?!"

"Hey, chief." The cheerful voice on the other side of the line did little to improve Vazhin's mood.

"LEVIN! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

Deb winced and put one hand over the receiver, turning to smile endearingly at Rasputin, "Awww, he missed me."

***
"That's it? That's all you got?!"

Pete's voice was cut off abruptly by Romany's glare. "Oh, you're now a frigging expert, huh? Think you can do better? No? Than shut the hell up before I turn you into a small hopping thing, capische?!"

As brother and sister continued to try and glare each other down, Proudstar coughed somewhat diffidently. "Umm... Ms. Wisdom, ma'am?"

"What?" Romany snapped, reluctantly transferring her eyes from Pete onto the new victim.

"Well.. it's just umm..." James floundered a bit, momentarily looking toward Sam for support. Seeing that his redoubtable leader had wisely put a table, a chair, a TV and Thomas Peregrine between himself and the impending meltdown, James sighed and plowed on, "Well... your brother has a point. This is a bit sketchy. And you were in there for a while.... We sorta expected something more, you know?"

Romany scowled, the black expression directed at no one in particular. "Rub it in, why don't you. It's like this – the last time somebody attempted to get all these components together was to assist in manifesting Set... Well more complicated than that, really, and quite ingenious in its own way. See, they couldn't just override the existing blocks so they had to go around them and..."

"Romany!"

"What?"

"Point?"

Sticking out her tongue at Pete briefly, Romany collected her thoughts. "Ah, well, I knew about it of course. But you know... I'd never make the connection. And besides, Kragri was supposed to be destroyed."

"Well it isn't." Domino commented just loudly enough to be heard, pointedly resting her hand on the side where the Kragri was surgically removed from her not that long ago. The wound closed surprisingly fast, but it still bothered her occasionally.

"Well.. yeah. Obviously." The thing of it is, there is no reason that Tsung should want the Tetrad..."

"Well that's the other thing I wanted to ask you. How do you know he _is_ after all four of 'em?"

"It's actually very simple."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Malchus told me so." Romany bristled again upon seeing her statement being greeted with eloquently raised eyebrows. "He knows these things!"

"And he told you the logic of how he came up with it of course, right?"

"Sorta... It's complicated."

"Mhhm."

"Just trust me, all right? Kragri without the other three is just a portable repair shop. Nah. Tsung wouldn't tip his hand if he just wanted the green sucker. He is going for the whole shebang. Why, though..."

"Maybe he is lonely. And wants a pet. Like Set. Set the pet. What better pet than that?"

Bedlam raised his hands defensively under the hard, silent stares of his companions. "Just trying to lighten up the situation. I see the error of my ways now. Please don't kill me and perform unspeakably horrible acts upon my body."

Sam closed his eyes tiredly, feeling the onset of a migraine. "Anyway, Romany, you said Malchus knows the location of the rest of the components?"

"Not exactly..." Romany got out of her chair, glancing at the still closed balcony door, "When that thing with Set got nixed, the people who were there decided basically to split the goods and hide them. Each of them knows the location of only one of the components. I'm guessing that Tsung somehow tracked down one of them, but before he could get his hands on Kragri they.. umm... let Domino borrow it."

"You can not imagine the depths of my gratitude."

"So what do we do now?"

"Simple." Pete stretched and yawned widely. "Malchus tells us the location of one of the things and we go set up there. He and Rom try to get the locations of the rest. Hmm.. Nick, how is it on your end?"

"Umm.. eh." Nicholas rubbed his eyes, shuffling the bunch of papers in his hands, blearily. "Success varies. The files that Romany gave us, were very good. Very detailed. I tracked down this merc guy – Cable, and the X-man – Logan. No clue where Darkholme is. Magneto is.. well, we all know where to find _him_. As for the rest, Romany said that she'd take care of it."

Pete turned and raised an eyebrow at Romany, "Explain."

The older Wisdom shrugged, "Don't worry about it, bro. I know these people. The long-haired guy especially. Met him at the Belgrade Symposium on the Occult in Urban Society. He's in Moscow. The other guy... Malchus is contacting him right now. He's actually the one who knows the location of the first component. Well second technically, since Kragri would be the first... Anyway."

"Great. What the hell is that?" Pete cocked his head as the strange warbling sound reverberated through the apartment.

"Someone's at the door," Tab shrugged, "We kinda messed up the bell thingie."

"Well get it, before it drives me into a killing spree!"

Getting up with a groan, Bedlam approached the door, his hand on the holster he now refused to part with. "Who is there?"

"YO! Open the damn door!"

"It's doc. Ehhh, what's up, doc?"

"Gee. Never heard that one before. Get me a drink, boy, before I give you an enema."

Bedlam grinned and produced an open bottle, ushering the newcomer in. He liked Neal Bester, even if the guy was a little on the odd side. Probably because his blood content was 80 percent scotch. Bester was a slim dark-haired man of a medium height, who still preferred to dress in his uniform, conveniently forgetting that he was drummed out. Jesse wasn't sure what his relationship to Pete was, except that Wisdom trusted this guy not only to remove Kragri from Domino, but also to analyze... it. His train of thought was rudely interrupted as Bester suddenly paled and sprayed the liquid in his mouth on the floor. "OH GAWD! What the hell IS that?"

"Umm..." Jesse smiled tentatively as he realized that he'd offered the doctor the wrong bottle, "Oops?"

"Oops?! Oops?!! I'll show you oops, you little pissant! OJ! OJ!! You little poisoner, I'll..."

***

Nick shook his head and sluggishly gathering the papers decide to finally catch up on that elusive phenomenon known as sleep. Even coffee was starting to become less and less effective. Dropping on the small bed he sighed in sheer, unbridled contentment, tuning out the noise in the other room with blissful ease. He missed the mansion. He missed the mansion's electronic systems. He missed the mansion's bed. But the mansion was just too freaking big to sweep everyday for bugs. And, more importantly, the visit from Jack scared the crap from everybody.

Nick shuddered sleepily, remembering the quiet evening when Mortimer had calmly announced that they had a visitor. Upon ascertaining who exactly this visitor was the Blue Room momentarily became a small mad house. He snickered, remembering the expression on Pete's face as he was being thrown into the closet. Nick was still not sure what happened after that. It was silly of them to think that the little duke out with the Apaches was going to go unnoticed in a city that was currently teeming with spooks. But he'd be damned if he knew how Jack drew connection to them that quickly. They had cleaned up their trail pretty thoroughly. Ah well. Jack did it. For he was Jack.

For a moment there he thought they were dead for sure. And then... Thom of all people. Huh.

Just before he drifted off into the peaceful, dreamless void, Nick wondered slightly what the hell Jack owed Thom. All Peregrine did was quietly mention Madrid, without even raising his head. And that was enough. Jack.. The Jack. Just looked him then turned around and left, without saying another word.

Weird.

***

The shade held, despite the instability of the weave. It was a bit tattered around the edges but still intact as it reached its destination. Noiselessly it glided over the sleeping form of Nick d'Arfoix, pausing only slightly as the shade's sender narrowed his eyes suddenly at the prone body. It made its way into the main room, passing over the loud discussion, almost unnoticed but for the brief uncomfortable look on Romany Wisdom's face. It moved on, trembling slightly as its owner gritted his teeth with the pain of holding it together. Finally it made its way onto the balcony, hovering just behind the man hunched over the railing with a cigarette in his hand.

"Enjoying the view, Agaspher? Or is it Malchus? I try to keep up with the changes, but I am rather busy."

The short, gaunt man smiled thinly as he watched through the shade's eyes. To anyone else Malchus would have seemed to be in complete control, but not to him. They have been enemies for far too long. The flick of fingers, sending the cigarette flying, the tension in the shoulders. The pause before answering was very nice. But not enough. "De Leon. I wondered how long it would take you."

"Ah, well... I am sorry to have kept you waiting. So many things to do these days. It really wreaked havoc with my time-table when your... associates destroyed the Coven. I had high hopes for the young Margaret. Ah, well. Ces't la vie."

Finally Malchus turned around, his face calm and rather relaxed, nothing betraying the feverish speed of his thoughts. "So you went ahead and found a new protégé, then. I should have known. Why do you want to give him the Tetrad?"

"Oh you mean you still haven't figured that out. How delicious! Why, it seems I overestimated you drastically, my dear friend." De Leon laughed out delightedly, suppressing the steadily increasing pain by will alone.

Malchus's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, probably cursing himself for making such an obvious mistake. The expression was brief, soon giving way to the usual poker face. Crossing his hand and leaning back against the railing Malchus grinned humorlessly. "So. What exactly a point of this visit... Ponce?"

The man waved his hand airily. "Nothing really. Just wanted to drop by and see how my old amigo was doing. Don't tell me you are not happy to see me?"

"Ecstatic," Malchus said, deadpan, and de Leon smiled appreciatively as the defensive patterns flared brightly suddenly around the Eternal Jew, forcing the shade to back off a bit. The pain was almost unbearable now, it would bring anyone else to their knees. But he was not anyone. He would wait until the last if necessary. And suddenly just as the black spots were beginning to dance before his eyes he saw it. An opening almost too miniscule to be of use. A necessary evil when enforcing one's guards, and the chance he was hoping for. The blood streamed from his ears as he suddenly lashed out with a nearly all of his reserves. Nearly all. He screamed finally, as Malchus retaliated with grim competence, tearing his projection to pieces. Just a few years ago, it would have been the end of it. But not today.

De Leon's screams were suddenly mingled with a raspy, air-sucking coughing laugh as he slowly lost the grip on consciousness. He never saw Malchus lip curl in a savage triumph as the last remnants of the shade dissipated, nor had he the opportunity to see the smallest, almost unnoticeable piece of the shade attach itself to the outer spiral of Malchus' protective weave.

He couldn't, because he was very much passed out, falling to the floor and hitting his forehead on it with a solid 'thunk.'

***

One would think that the second man in the room would catch the falling body. Or at the very least make an attempt. One would be very wrong.

"Well, there we go with the falling and denting the floor again. Westerners." The second man stepped over the unmoving body of de Leon and turned on the lights, illuminating a lavishly decorated room. The carpets seemed to cover every inch of the walls and the floor, except for one corner, in which a large pentagram was drawn and in which de Leon was currently rediscovering the joys of coma. Sparing him just a brief glance, the second man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the individual who'd made the attempt on X-Force and Domino not so long ago, raised his voice slightly. "Yo! Minion! Get your ass in here."

The door opened almost immediately, letting in a young, serious, blond man with the solid build of a boxer. "Mr. Tsung?"

"Yes, Igor. Clean up this mess, would you? It seems our evil Yoda had another of his falling accidents."

"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung. Should we put Mr. de Leon in his quarters or the med room?"

"Whatever." Marcus Tsung tapped his lip absentmindedly as a pair of men, dressed much like Nikolai, in black immaculate suits, entered the room silently and took de Leon away. "Any news about the Indian deal?"

"No, Mr. Tsung. We are expecting the decision will be made any day now."

"Right. That's what they said last week. I have bills to pay, you know. Time is money. Money is cable. Cable is Sopranos. I get very cranky if I don't watch Sopranos. Tell 'em that, Ivan."

"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung. Will that be all?"

"Yes, you may go." Nodding slightly Nikolai backed into the door, closing it behind him.

Tsung sighed and restlessly circled the room. "I am so very bored. Bored, bored, bored. Lalala. Hey, minion!"

"Yes, Mr. Tsung?"

"Nothing, just checking your reaction time. Excellent job. You may go."

"Of course Mr. Tsung."

"Bored. I am a very bored avatar of evil stuff. Minion!"

"Yes, Mr. Tsung."
.
"Nothing. Heh. This joke NEVER gets old."

"Yes, sir." Nikolai agreed, disappearing again.

"Minion!"

"Sir?"

"I am still bored. Let's go visit our guest. She always knows how to cheer me up. Excellent sense of humor."

"Of course, Mr. Tsung."

The pair departed the room immediately, Nikolai walking ahead, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Tsung was whistling a currently popular tune and occasionally punctuating it by drumming on Nikolai's back. They walked through the long, well lit corridor, passing several closed doors, stopping before the elevator door. If Nikolai harbored any hopes that the wait or the ride down to the lower levels of the building would put a stop to Tsung's foray into the musical scene, he was soon disillusioned. By the time they reached their destination, and reached the only holding cell currently in use, Tsung went through much of the recent chart toppers, entering the cell while cheerily performing a spirited rendition of "Hit Me baby One More Time." The guards seemed suitably frightened. Nikolai still showed no outward sign of being bothered. The dirty, disheveled figure behind the bars sighed tiredly, "You again?"

"Yes, indeed. Miss me?"

"No. I never miss."

"How droll. I was just telling my minion here, how much I enjoy your sense of humor."

The girl in the cell shrugged, spitting at Tsung half-heartedly. Used to such greetings the latter nimbly side-stepped the attack, letting it hit one of the guards instead. "Now, now. I thought you never missed?"

"I meant to hit him."

"Ah. Well.. all right then." Tsung tapped his chin, looking at the girl thoughtfully. "Why are you doing that thing with your lip?"

"What thing?"

"You know, that thing with your lip. When you bite it and stuff. Isn't that painful?"

"I have an oral fixation."

"Reaaaally?! How fascinating. So in other words you arm is still killing you. All right. Hold that oral-fixation thought, I'll want to come back to it later. You." Tsung pointed at one of the guards, whose beer belly was straining the dirty sweater to the extreme, "Umm.. Volkov, right?"

"Yessir!"

Tsung shuddered, "Please don't ever salute again. It makes your layers move in the ways nature never intended."

"Yessir!"

"All right, it seems to me that the last time I was here I ordered that she be given a bath and her arm set. I see two options here. 1 – I am going crazy. That's not uncommon in the males of my family. If that's true I was just imagining things and that order never happened. We will dismiss that option however, because if it ever got out troops might get dispirited. That leaves the second option – " Tsing paused, looking at the guard fondly.

The guard remained standing very still, seemingly hanging on every word. Tsung smiled indulgently. "See, Volkov, this is where you jump in and explain to me the second option."

"Oh Yessir! I thought you were kidding, sir! Let this Jew-bitch rot in there!"

"Ah." Tsung nodded understandingly and turned to the girl behind bars. The prisoner sat up on the pile of straw and upon careful consideration hesitantly bit into the stale loaf of bread, ignoring the exchange. "Hmm... I love having subordinates who are not afraid to take initiative."

Volkov's face melted into a proud, gap-toothed grin.

"Minion."

"Yes, Mr. Tsung." The bullet impact threw the now headless body of Volkov harshly against the stone wall. Tsung shrugged amiably at the other two guards. "What can I say, he loves big guns. You."

"Smirnov, sir!"

"Whatever. Get her cleaned up, fed, and that arm set." Turning away Tsung started exiting the cell, then suddenly stopped and looked at Smirnov inquisitively, "Unless you think we should proceed differently?"

"No, sir!" The guard shook his head emphatically, not an easy feat while trying to salute at the same time.

"You sure, now?" Tsung's face reflected nothing but the utmost concern for the guard's opinion.

Smirnov started to sweat.
"Yes, sir!"

"Well all right then. I am glad you approve. Let's go, Mikhail."

"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung"

"Whatever you say, Boris."

***

As usual at this time of day, the streets of Hammer Bay were almost empty, the oppressive heat chasing the pedestrians to seek the refuge in the shade. The cars were far more numerous, although their numbers had dwindled considerably as the population of the Genoshan capital continued to change as more and more mutants emigrated here in hopes of finally finding a place where they could be accepted for what they are.

The recent ravages of civil strife have left its marks, but while internal wounds were still fresh the façade of Hammer Bay shone with pristine, pale, somber beauty of Neo Classical architecture. Much like Berlin and Tokyo before it the city had to be rebuilt almost completely from the ground up following the civil war.

One man was entrusted by Eric Magnus Lensherr, Consul Prime of the Republic of Genosha, to oversee the reconstruction -- Pierre le Blanc. In his hands Hammer Bay would become the microcosm of the new society that Magneto was building on the ashes of the old. Even the most ardent enemies of the new order had to agree that le Blanc had accomplished an almost impossible feat. One could almost believe that Hammer Bay was a Roman city transported through time by magic. The illusion was broken only by the automobiles and the tall Towers of Magistries that proudly ringed the Magda Forum. The city was immaculately planned, the broad, open streets cutting through the orderly districts, the verdant splashes of public gardens providing the places of shade and complementing the mostly ivory-white buildings.

Few mentioned the deportations of the former owners of the land used to provide these beauty spots. After all they were flat-scans, guilty of ruthlessly exploiting the mutate population of Genosha for generations. It was justice, nothing more.

If anything, many of the new immigrants took that as a sign of security, the sign of their changed position. They, the mutants, were the elite here. Protected by laws, by the rapidly growing and modernizing army and by the ever-watchful Magistry of Interior. And by the Consul prime himself. They were safe here. From anything.

Hardly any of Hammer Bay's citizens would be surprised that, at that moment, their Consul was somewhat tiredly climbing the stairs to the last floor of the Magistry of Interior. They might be mildly curious as to why he didn't use the elevator or simply fly himself to his destination, and a little amused to find out that even the highest levels of government are not immune against the onset of vanity. Yes. Eric Magnus Lensherr, known and feared around the world as the militant terrorist Magneto, currently the unquestioned ruler of the Republic of Genosha, was feeling old.

His secretary vainly tried to point out that he hardly looked 40. He bravely pointed out that negotiating several thousands of steps of the MI Tower was hardly dignified or rational. He knew he was fighting a losing battle from the very beginning. The Consul was feeling old. And he wanted to prove himself wrong. Which is why the secretary, who to his dismay found himself to be in far worse shape than the Consul, was currently wheezing his way up the same Tower, three stairs behind Magneto. Sometimes Ricardo Sanchez hated his job with pure and unadulterated passion.

His feelings were shared rather completely by his counterpart to the head of MI, tt least at the moment. James Woolworth was standing behind his desk clutching an extremely rare Japanese vase in one arm and a rather battered teddy bear in the other. The rest of the floor was very, very empty. One could make the reasonable assumption that, since the floor was empty, it was also quiet. It would be a logical conclusion but for three things. The top floor of MI Tower housed the office of its Archon. The Archon had just received some bad news.

The Archon was Amelia Voght.

"Son of a bitch! I'll rip his freaking spleen out through his throat and shove it back up his ass! Stinking bastard!"

The last curse was punctuated by the sound of something extremely fragile being thrown against the wall. James winced.

"Didn't have time to save the lamp?"

"No." Woolworth shook his head resignedly, not turning around. "She teleported me out."

"Ah, well, I see you saved Rusty."

"Well yes. Madame Archon would be very upset if she did something to hi... Your Lordship!"

Magnus nodded, gesturing slightly with his hand, "At ease, Mr. Woolsworth. How long has she been at it, then?"

"Your Lordship, I really couldn't..."

"Your loyalty is commendable, James. However I'd really like to know whether it's safe for me to go in there."

Woolworth was getting a little desperate at the dilemma he was facing, but thankfully he was saved from the choice by his boss. "Woolworth, get in here! I am going to need the files on the Skinner operation. Everything! Pronto!!"

James sighed a wordless prayer of thanks and started to move toward the computer on his desk, checked only by the hand on his shoulder. "We are not to be disturbed for about two hours. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man." Giving his shoulder a squeeze Magnus disappeared into the office. Taking off his glasses James rubbed his face, tiredly wondering whether he should have brought more than two bottles of aspirin today.

"Hey... Jimmy..."

Putting his glasses back on James looked at the sweating, gasping figure in the door. "Hey, Ric. Water?"

"Yes... please."

Closing the door tightly behind him, Magneto looked at the MI Archon interestedly. "What was that last one? I don't think I ever heard you use that before."

Voght scowled. "I made it up."

"Ah." Managing to convey everything he wanted to say in one syllable was definitely one of Magneto's most infuriating personality traits, Amelia pondered as she kicked one of the chairs his way. "You heard?"

"That you were bamboozled on the Gonsales op and someone used MI as his own personal assassin squad to take over Skinner's business including the Rave trade? You think that's what brought me here, Madame Archon? Perish the thought."

Amelia sniffed, kicking the glass shards on the floor together into a reasonably neat pile of glass shards. "I'm looking into it."

"I heard. I think most of the Tower heard. But leaving that aside. How goes the Recruitment Drive?"

The two words seemed to immediately change the atmosphere in the room. The air of frivolity was gone, and the suddenly completely serious Vought pressed a series of buttons on the console built into her desk. Magneto waited calmly as he felt the hidden machines come to life, searching the room for bugs. Finally Voght nodded to herself, "Clean. All right. Mostly it's going according to projections. The whole idea seems to have been a haphazard, poorly planned affair. The X-men and several others managed to break the blockade and Earth is no longer a prison planet for Shi'ar. Many of the prisoners are to be deported shortly, back to the Imperium. Except for those whom we managed to identify and contact. They will prove invaluable to us, in my opinion. The Magistry of Defense and the Magistry of Science concur."

Magneto nodded, taking the expected news in stride. "Americans?"

Voght shrugged, "Nothing appears to have changed. Barring some spectacular upset Kelly has no chance."

"Have you found Raven yet?"

Amelia's lips pressed together in a thin line. "No. Not yet."

"I trust that I don't need to remind you that an assassination attempt, which is almost sure to fail, will provide that very same spectacular boost you mentioned."

"We will find her. Although, I think you are underestimating Mystique."

Magneto's eyes met Voght's and held them until Amelia finally lowered her gaze. Standing up, Magneto continued calmly as if nothing had happened, "If she does succeed, the consequences may be far worse. Not only the internal measures against homo superior population are sure to be taken, it is inevitable, considering my ties with Darkholme, that the Genoshan republic will be blamed for the attack. Which will provide a solid pretext for the Americans to retaliate with full force. With the UN firmly behind them."

Voght shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. They tried their best bet with the Avengers and failed. That hurt them. Even with the Avengers now officially operating as free-lancers, everyone still sees them as representatives of the US government." Amelia paused, shrugging again. She didn't feel the need to belabor the point. Magneto's children turned against him during that attack, and his protégé, Lorna Dane, also betrayed him. Still, he'd prevailed. And exploited the situation ruthlessly, when he spoke before UN. The United States denied any complicity in the incident but were not believed even by their staunchest allies. "I doubt they will opt for an outright military intervention against us.

Magneto idly leafed through the papers covering the surface of the desk. "You are wrong. Also, what are the news on the Russian/Indian arms deal?"

"They're close to an agreement. Should we intervene in some manner? Attempt to delay the sighing?"

"No. It does not concern us directly at this point, and worried a Pakistan might prove useful. I want you to start laying the groundwork. In several days the Americans are going to go ahead with testing their new toy. That missile shield. Regardless of the result, the Russians are going to scream bloody murder, with Chinese and most of Europe not far behind. We will join the protest. Not first, but immediately after the Russians. They won't like siding with us, nor will the rest, but they will have no choice. All right, next..."