You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
Designed and directed by
his red right hand

- from "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

The man who had once been Nathaniel Essex, and who now called himself Mr. Sinister, was, all things considered, uncommonly pleased. His least-trustworthy agent had come through in splendid form, delivering into his hands the last and most crucial ingredient of his plan. It was, of course, going to make Mystique more of a pain than ever to deal with from this point onward, but such was the price.

In the privacy of one of his laboratory complex's smaller rooms, Sinister had examined the Rogue girl carefully, checking for damage caused by Arclight's slightly over-enthusiastic retrieval. He had been reluctant to send out his Marauders so shortly after their debut performance in the Morlock tunnels the night before, and the debacle earlier that morning, but he did not dare risk Rogue escaping from his grasp. She was far, far too important.

As it was, she had only suffered minor bruising to her face, upper right arm, and left shoulder; all due, no doubt, to Arclight. The woman was too strong for her limited intellect - but then, that was true for all of the Marauders. In assembling the group, Sinister had looked for brawn over brain, and he had found it.

Arclight was perhaps the strongest; her power to create concussive waves and bright flashes of light simply by hitting things certainly lent itself to physicality. Riptide was also fairly strong, but it was tempered - tainted, even - by a crazed, brutal savagery that none of the others possessed. The bloodlust he exhibited, the maniacal joy with which he tornadoed and razored through living flesh, would have chilled Sinister... had he cared. In truth, he did not.

Those two were strictly muscle, and Vertigo was little more than a lovely face. Harpoon, however, was something else altogether.

For a start, the Inuit man rarely spoke. When he did, it was for practical reasons only; there was none of the prattling and boasting so typical of mercenaries. And Sinister had the distinct impression that Harpoon, despite throwing his so-called slayspears with as much accuracy and coldheartedness as any other killer, did not... enjoy his work in the same manner as the other Marauders.

And then, of course, there was Sabretooth. Mr. Sinister was quite satisfied with the killer's qualifications, having used him before for murderous tasks, although he had some doubt of his loyalties. Sabretooth, he knew, had worked for many other masterminds, including that shortsighted Magneto and the clumsy architect of Weapon X.

Out of all of his Marauders and his handful of independent agents, Sinister trusted exactly none of them. That was why he was still alive - and why he would be alive for some time yet.

But there was no one on Earth or beyond that he trusted less than the creature he now had to deal with. Iin the communication room, Sinister keyed the satellite relay and faced the video screen with a buoyant sense of confidence. With the final piece of his plan in place, he would not have to endure this forced servitude this much longer. That thought alone kept him well.

"Apocalypse," he said, smiling a false smile. "How goes the construction?"

Several thousand miles and continents away, the dread lord scowled at his theoretical servant. "Too slowly. Where are my Horsemen?"

Sinister pretended to be absorbed in adjusting the relay. "I am sorry to hear that. I thought my workers would be faster - but building such a complex regeneration system does take time."

"No stalling, tinkerer. Where are my Horsemen?"

"As you know, I conducted a very thorough raid on the mutant colony last night," Sinister said, deliberately stalling. "Unfortunately, several promising specimens were lost to the overzealousness of my collectors. I did, however, manage to procure four mutants perfectly suited to your request, and began... altering them immediately. But..."

He trailed off, stalling again just for the hell of it, and Apocalypse tilted his massive head, waiting with ill-disguised impatience.

"But," he continued after a moment, on the grounds that it was not a brilliant idea to rile Apocalypse overmuch, "an incident earlier in the day led to a significant setback. The Four Horsemen will not be ready for some time yet."

Apocalypse's displeasure was almost palpable. "That is not what you promised me, Essex. I well remember your first act of treason. I find myself wondering if you intend to try once more."

The emphasis the ancient mutant placed on the word "try" left little doubt that he would deal with any betrayal in a truly final manner. Carefully, Sinister said, "The job will still be done, my dread lord, make no mistake of that. I simply need more time."

Apocalypse gestured and one of Sinister's workers obediently appeared onscreen beside him. The workers were clones, barely sentient, and most of them had been augmented with cybernetics until they were more metal than flesh. None of them had the capacity for feeling; they just worked until they died, and then Sinister created new clones in their stead. He had given a small army to Apocalypse to use in building a new "golden room" as a token bit of cooperation. They were, naturally, designed to self-destruct should Apocalypse try to use them to build anything else.

Apocalypse placed a hand in front of the worker's chest. "Remember, Essex," he growled, "that you are now and forever my servant. I will not accept further deceit!"

Sinister guessed what was coming and closed his eyes, exasperated, as a bright flare of energy burst from Apocalypse's hand and tore through the worker's chest. "As you wish, dread lord," Sinister said, somewhat perfunctorily, and terminated the relay.

He left the room; Sabretooth, waiting in the hallway by the door, kept pace with him as they walked to the chamber where the Rogue girl and Danvers were being held.

"The others want something to do," Sabretooth said.

Sinister made a disdainful noise. "Send them into the sewers again. See if they can find any more survivors - better yet, see if they can find the osteomorph child. But have them stay close. I may need their assistance."

Sabretooth grunted and turned down a side hallway.

Before he saw to Rogue, Sinister paused to check on one of the four future Horsemen. He was pleased to see that he had lost none of his surgical skills; the sutures in the superscapular stumps were closing nicely, with good granulation, and the prototype healing devices had done their part flawlessly. The first and smallest of the cybernetic implants had taken root in the flesh and would be ready to bear further additions soon.

He adjusted the sedative drip on Worthington and left.