Note: The details about the Romanovs' murders are accurate, although Yurovsky believed that he had burned the body of Anna Demidova, the maid; however, the only missing female skeleton is Anastasia's. Either way, they all died. Would that real life is like the movies.
Also, I found two translations of the Tut quote - the other one is, "Death will slay with his wings whoever disturbs the peace of the pharoah." I disqualified it because Apocalypse is not a pharoah. Technically. But what a freaky-cool quote, huh?
~~~~~~
Every time they were sure they had you caught
You were quicker than they thought
You'd just turn your back and walk
You always said the cards would never do you wrong
The trick, you said, was never play the game too long
- from "Still The Same" by Bob Seger
~~~~~~
One of the indicator lights on Sinister's console began to flash, and he frowned down at it. His
New York lab had been quite useful; now that it had been found out, as the light proved, he
would be forced to abandon it for good. Which meant, of course, that he would have to destroy
it.
He tapped a button on the console, setting in motion a chain of destructive events, and then left
the work station to join Apocalypse on his rounds.
There were workers scurrying everywhere, rushing to complete the half-finished walls and rooms
of Apocalypse's new tomb, and he was forced to dodge showers of sparks from acetelyne
torches and clusters of hanging wires as he made his way down the rough corridors.
This was an important event, all told. Today, only two days from the moment he'd left New
York, the last touches on the four prospective Horsemen had been completed, and Sinister was
ready to show them to their dread lord and master.
It was rather ironic that the only part of this entire venture that had gone smoothly was the
actual creation of the Horsemen. Everything else had been a nightmare of Brobdingnagian
proportions, up to and including the dismissal of the Marauders. He'd been forced to make a
sizable detour to Madripoor, where he'd cut them loose. They would be well at home with the
rest of the island's criminal population, and sure to find work. The scum of the earth flocked to
Madripoor, as did the obscenely wealthy. It was an interesting place, from a social Darwinist's
perspective, and though Sinister was not a social Darwinist, he found the small Asian nation
intriguing nonetheless. After all this madness was concluded, perhaps he would go there and
recruit for a few experiments. No Marauders, though - unless he was looking for cannon fodder.
His route took him past an open air shaft, and he noted that the temperature outside was still
below freezing. Not startling news for Severnaya Zemlya; not startling news for any part of
Russia, even those parts below the Arctic Circle. It was not his first visit to the country; that
had been in 1918 Ekaterinberg, when the White Army was closing in and the Bolsheviks,
panicked, ordered the czar's execution. He remembered the entire affair quite clearly. He had
even had the priceless opportunity to collect DNA samples from the dead Romanovs before
Commodant Yurovsky had burned the bodies of Alexei and Anastasia, and buried the rest in a
pathetically clumsy grave.
He'd been back, of course, during the days of Khrushchev and the so-called space race, running
experiments in the shadows on both sides of the Cold War fence. That had been an intense time,
full of tangled negotiations and near-disasters. He did not miss it.
The corridor abruptly ended in a set of large doors, which stood open, as they would until
Apocalypse was ready to seal it. Sinister strolled into the unfinished room beyond, which was
being decorated in the imposing Egyptian style that En Sabah Nur favored.
"My dread lord," Sinister said, announcing his entry with stiff formality.
Apocalypse was seated on the block of raw stone that would become his sarcophagus, a dozen
workers hovering around him. He was still a huge and imposing figure, but he had shrunken
slightly in the time without his regeneration chamber, and now he looked liked nothing so much
as an old man surrounded by fawning attendents. Too much power expended, Sinister knew. He
kept meticulous track of his enemies' weaknesses, and particularly Apocalypse's.
They had much in common, truthfully, with their ambitions toward godhood. But Apocalypse
was a raging tyrant, while Sinister was a careful orchestrator, and he had no doubt that Horace
was right: "Brute force bereft of wisdom falls to ruin by its own weight."
Apocalypse lifted his massive blue head and regarded Sinister with a baleful eye. "You are late,
Essex."
"My apologies," Sinister said. He waved his hand and the workers dispersed instantly. "I have
come from the laboratory chamber; the Horsemen candidates are ready."
Apocalypse nodded once, curtly, and rose. Sinister allowed him to lead the way out of the room
and down the corridor, because otherwise the ancient mutant would be offended.
And right now, he did not want to offend Apocalypse.
They entered the laboratory - a pale imitation of his lost New York complex - and Sinister saw
that his four prospective Horsemen were precisely where he had left them, standing in a line at
perfect attention.
Pleased with his work, he reviewed the four along with Apocalypse, giving a running narration as
the tyrant made his way down the line.
"Abraham Kieros," Sinister said, "whom I have outfitted as War. He is, appropriately enough, a
military veteran, having been driven into the sewers by his inability to cope with the stresses of
his bloody memories."
War, his eyes the flat white of a stereotypical zombie, did not show a flicker of life as
Apocalypse looked him over. The metal suit of armor he wore had been fashioned to resemble
that of medieval knights, although it was augmented by an underlying web of cybernetics. Two
swords were strapped to his back, and a mace hung from his wide leather belt. Kieros, in
addition to being in the right place at the right time, and being a very competent soldier, had a
latent mutant talent to create concussive blasts and explosions. He was a good catch.
Apocalypse nodded curtly and moved to the next Horseman. She was a petite girl, tall enough
but so wasted that her bones showed clearly through her skin. Her eyes, sunk deep into the
hollows of her orbits, had a dull, filmy sheen, and she showed no sign that she noticed the two
men looming over her.
"Autumn Rolfson. A pitful wretch, cursed with the ability to emaciate any living organism,
including herself, as you can see. Perfect, I should think, for the role of Famine."
Apocalypse reached out a hand, perhaps to test the strength of Famine's frail-looking form, but
Sinister quickly blocked him. "I wouldn't, unless you want to lose even more of your power."
"A weapon that wounds its bearer is of no use," Apocalypse said, warningly.
Sinister laid a hand on Famine's painfully thin shoulder, safely shielded by the dark violet layer of
her outfit; he had designed the material to be precisely thick enough to block her power, but not
so thick that it caused undo feedback (literally) to the girl. "Ah, but this weapon will do as told,
and its bearer can stay safely removed."
"Clever," Apocalypse said, and Sinister had the distinct feeling that it was anything but a
compliment.
"This one," he said, gesturing toward the third Horseman, "had no name, just the simple moniker
of 'Plague'. She causes illness with a touch. I have boosted that power, and she is now ready to
serve as Pestilence."
As a result of his genetic alterations, Pestilence's skin had turned a sickly shade of green, which
only enhanced the feverish gleam in her eyes. She, unlike the rest, gazed back at Apocalypse
with something like awareness. Sinister was slightly concerned about her mental state; he
thought she was very likely unbalanced, even more so than the traumatized Kieros. That was not
dangerous, in and of itself, but his delicate brainwashing process might not have filtered through
all of the cracks in her fractured mind.
Apocalypse tilted his head, considering, and then dismissed her from his attenion. "I see you
have saved your masterpiece for the last."
Again, it was said with derision, but Sinister was proud at the statement anyway. The final
Horseman was indeed his masterpiece, a flawless melding of flesh and machine, created to kill and
nothing else. He valued elegance - the pure simplicity of function that nature decreed - and the
arching metal wings were elegant indeed. An improvement on the originals by any measure.
"Warren Worthington III," Sinister said triumphantly. "An unexpected prize. He's the heir to a
vast fortune, a fact which you might care to exploit later. I have made some improvements on
him as well."
"An angel of Death." Apocalypse's wide mouth twitched - whether in amusement or another
emotion, Sinister could not tell.
"He is the strongest of the four, and undoubtedly the smartest. Suitable for leadership," Sinister
said, knowing that Apocalypse would find his suggestion suspect, but would ultimately agree.
" 'They who enter this sacred tomb shall swift be visited by wings of death,' " he added, unable
to resist.
Apocalypse, caught in the midst of brooding, raised one eyebrow.
"Oh, yes, that's correct - you weren't around for Carter and Carnarvon, those bloody idiots,"
Sinister said. He maintained a level, even upbeat tone, knowing that would gall Apocalypse
more; the entire reason the ancient mutant had missed the 1922 excavation - indeed, all of the
twentieth century - was because Natheniel Essex had reninged on his deal to free him. "That was
the curse of Tutankhamen, supposedly. The real curse was the three-thousand-year-old
microbes and fungal spores lining the tomb. Simple paper masks would have saved their lives,
but they were too ignorant to know it."
"Then they did not deserve to live," Apocalypse said with finality, and took Worthington's jaw
in his hand and lifted his head, examining him with that burning glare as he would an animal.
Worthington stared straight ahead, blankly. "Do you know, Essex, what 'angel' means?"
" 'Messenger,' " he answered without pause, having brushed up on his knowledge of the ancient
world since En Sabah Nur's return.
"It is most fitting," Apocalypse mused in his deep rumble of a voice. "Such a herald would show
the impudent vermin my power."
Sinister said nothing, letting himself experience a wave of warm self-praise. He might not have
chosen the task (and certainly not the position of being shackled to a mad god's whims), but he
had done the job to the utmost limits of his abilities, and was proud of himself.
"You have done well," Apocalypse said after a long minute, releasing Worthington and stepping
back. "These four are all that I asked they be."
"You sound surprised," Sinister said. He was not, although his ego was suitably flattered by the
confirmation of what he already knew.
Apocalypse gestured, bored. "Your past actions do you no credit, tinkerer."
Sinister inclined his head, acknowledging at the truth of that without expressly admitting it.
"That is why," Apocalypse said, his tone still bespeaking boredom, "I demand a demonstration."
"A demonstration?" Sinister asked sharply. Apocalypse narrowed his eyes, and Sinister hastily
added an entirely perfunctory, "My dread lord."
"I seek proof, Essex, that you are keeping your word." Apocalypse turned away from Sinister
and the Four Horsemen. A small crew of workers immediately surrounded him, quickly and
unobstrusively attaching wires and tubes to the massive body. "I have already implanted barriers
in their minds, to circumvent your own manipulations, but I want proof incontrivertible. An
excercise."
Sinister had anticipated this response from the beginning (including the mental interference), and
so he now had to make a show of thinking about it before he said, "If I may suggest a location,
First One...?"
Apocalypse raised a hand, indicating that he should continue.
"The United States military has a facility in the mountains of Utah - a place they do not
acknowledge as existing. How much more would they deny, I wonder, an attack on this base?"
Sinister paused for dramatic effect - and to see what Apocalypse's reaction would be - before
venturing into truly dangerous territory. "At the moment, you lack the strength to mount a
counterattack; therefore, secrecy would be your best ally."
Apocalypse had gone very still, listening to Sinister's words. Sinister could practically see the
gears turning in his mind as he calculated the merits of the plan. After an interminable moment,
Apocalypse turned around and closed the distance between them, shedding workers as he went,
until he was nearly standing on top of Sinister - the better to intimidate. Sinister was not
impressed.
"Do not forget," Apocalypse said, his breath swirling down digustingly hot on Sinister's face,
"that you too are in this business, and secrecy is your ally as well - but that, _that_ you know
very well already, my prodigal servant."
Sinister sketched a half-bow. "If you say, dread lord."
Apocalypse's face twisted into a muderous scowl, eyes glowing brightly with rage. From past
experience, Sinister expected the mutant to lash out in a mildly irritating demonstration of brute
power. He had certainly earned a reprimand, with his delibrately mocking tone; it had been a
foolish thing to do, perhaps even mortally so, but he chafed under Apocalypse's yoke. A barbed
comment every so often did wonders for his own meglomania, although it never helped block the
blows from Apocalypse's fists. This time, though, Apocalypse merely straightened abruptly
and turned his back on Sinister. "You will escort the Horsemen to this military facility
immediately."
"As you wish," Sinister said. "It will, however, take some time to prepare them for combat, and
to set up a monitering system for your benefit."
Apocalypse growled, sending workers scurrying. "Without delays, tinkerer."
Sinister allowed himself a small smile. "As you wish."
~~
Storm walked through the hallways of the Institute silently, feeling the utter futility of their
search through every inch of her body. She also felt the bruises she'd incurred on the mission;
injuries that would last far longer for her than they would for Wolverine. In fact, his wounds had
already healed.
Carol was engaged in a heated conversation with Beast at the base of the foyer stairs, with Jean
and Cyclops standing discreetly off to one side. The talking and the listening broke off abruptly,
however, when Carol saw Wolverine.
"Logan," she said. "Tell me good news."
"Sorry, Ace," he said. "They were gone."
Several outcries of "what?" and "gone?" answered him, but they were drowned out by Carol's
truly furious, "What do you _mean_, GONE?!"
"Gone," Storm repeated. "We checked the entire facility. It was stripped clean of any people or
equipment."
Carol hit her open hand against the wall, putting a sizable dent in the plaster. "I can't BELIEVE
this! Did you find anything - any clues pointing to where they might have vanished?"
"No," Wolverine said, shaking his head with visible disappointment. "Ace, there was nothin'
there except the walls, the floors, and a few nasty boobytraps. And the whole place blew
seconds after we cleared out."
Carol dropped her head and sighed. "I still should have been there with you. With my seventh
sense... Maybe we could have found something."
"Maybe," Storm said, lifting her eyes to the stairwell, "and perhaps we have something right
here."
The others looked at her, identical small frowns creasing their dissimilar faces, and then Beast
snapped his fingers. "Of course! Remy - he knew about Mystique, and she did insinuate that
he'd worked for Sinister - he might know where other laboratories are located!"
Wolverine sniffed the air. "It's a bit of a long shot, Hank, and I don't think Gumbo's gonna be
givin' us any answers anyway."
"Why not?" Cyclops asked, but the adults and Carol were already running up the stairs.
Storm was first into the room. She crossed over to the window and tested it; it looked closed,
but swung outward when she pushed on it. [Oh, Remy,] she thought, [what have you done?]
"He's gone," Wolverine said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Left a few hours ago."
"Why?" Carol asked, and Storm had to sigh. She shut the window and locked it again, making a
mental note to reset the alarm.
"He stayed here because of Rogue," Jean said. "And - I think I saw him in the basement when
Beast, Carol, and the professor were talking about, um, Carol. He must have overheard."
Cyclops shook his head. "But there's still a chance. Why would he leave?"
Storm, who had moved over to the bed, picked up a playing card that was lying on the pillow. A
queen of hearts; her own heart broke a little for the thief. "Because, for him, history is repeating
itself." She handed the card to Carol and said, "Place that in Rogue's room. Somewhere safe."
Carol accepted the card wordlessly.
"Remy is Thieves' Guild royalty," Storm explained. "His father is their unquestioned leader.
That much I knew from the beginning. Soon after he joined us, though, I sent a message to my
teacher, Achmed el-Gibar, in Cairo, asking him if he knew anything more about Remy."
"I'm guessin' he did," Logan said.
"Yes. To end their feud for good, Remy was betrothed to his counterpart in the Assassins'
Guild, a young woman named Belladonna Boudreaux. Her brother, Julien, objected to the match;
there was a fight, and the betrothal was called off. As a consequence, Remy was forbidden to
have any further contact with the Assassins, including Belladonna. Shortly after that, Mesmero
arrived in New Orleans, and it no longer mattered."
Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Jean said, softly but with heartfelt feeling, "That
sucks."
Wolverine growled. "More for us than him. Now we're workin' in the dark."
Storm sighed. As much as she disliked his lack of compassion, she had to admit that he was
right.
"So much for finding Sinister," Cyclops said, and turned to go.
Carol and the rest of the X-Men left the room, disgruntled with their former teammate, but Ororo
stayed behind. "You could not have chosen a worse time, Remy LeBeau," she told the empty
space that used to be his, and then she too left.
Also, I found two translations of the Tut quote - the other one is, "Death will slay with his wings whoever disturbs the peace of the pharoah." I disqualified it because Apocalypse is not a pharoah. Technically. But what a freaky-cool quote, huh?
~~~~~~
Every time they were sure they had you caught
You were quicker than they thought
You'd just turn your back and walk
You always said the cards would never do you wrong
The trick, you said, was never play the game too long
- from "Still The Same" by Bob Seger
~~~~~~
One of the indicator lights on Sinister's console began to flash, and he frowned down at it. His
New York lab had been quite useful; now that it had been found out, as the light proved, he
would be forced to abandon it for good. Which meant, of course, that he would have to destroy
it.
He tapped a button on the console, setting in motion a chain of destructive events, and then left
the work station to join Apocalypse on his rounds.
There were workers scurrying everywhere, rushing to complete the half-finished walls and rooms
of Apocalypse's new tomb, and he was forced to dodge showers of sparks from acetelyne
torches and clusters of hanging wires as he made his way down the rough corridors.
This was an important event, all told. Today, only two days from the moment he'd left New
York, the last touches on the four prospective Horsemen had been completed, and Sinister was
ready to show them to their dread lord and master.
It was rather ironic that the only part of this entire venture that had gone smoothly was the
actual creation of the Horsemen. Everything else had been a nightmare of Brobdingnagian
proportions, up to and including the dismissal of the Marauders. He'd been forced to make a
sizable detour to Madripoor, where he'd cut them loose. They would be well at home with the
rest of the island's criminal population, and sure to find work. The scum of the earth flocked to
Madripoor, as did the obscenely wealthy. It was an interesting place, from a social Darwinist's
perspective, and though Sinister was not a social Darwinist, he found the small Asian nation
intriguing nonetheless. After all this madness was concluded, perhaps he would go there and
recruit for a few experiments. No Marauders, though - unless he was looking for cannon fodder.
His route took him past an open air shaft, and he noted that the temperature outside was still
below freezing. Not startling news for Severnaya Zemlya; not startling news for any part of
Russia, even those parts below the Arctic Circle. It was not his first visit to the country; that
had been in 1918 Ekaterinberg, when the White Army was closing in and the Bolsheviks,
panicked, ordered the czar's execution. He remembered the entire affair quite clearly. He had
even had the priceless opportunity to collect DNA samples from the dead Romanovs before
Commodant Yurovsky had burned the bodies of Alexei and Anastasia, and buried the rest in a
pathetically clumsy grave.
He'd been back, of course, during the days of Khrushchev and the so-called space race, running
experiments in the shadows on both sides of the Cold War fence. That had been an intense time,
full of tangled negotiations and near-disasters. He did not miss it.
The corridor abruptly ended in a set of large doors, which stood open, as they would until
Apocalypse was ready to seal it. Sinister strolled into the unfinished room beyond, which was
being decorated in the imposing Egyptian style that En Sabah Nur favored.
"My dread lord," Sinister said, announcing his entry with stiff formality.
Apocalypse was seated on the block of raw stone that would become his sarcophagus, a dozen
workers hovering around him. He was still a huge and imposing figure, but he had shrunken
slightly in the time without his regeneration chamber, and now he looked liked nothing so much
as an old man surrounded by fawning attendents. Too much power expended, Sinister knew. He
kept meticulous track of his enemies' weaknesses, and particularly Apocalypse's.
They had much in common, truthfully, with their ambitions toward godhood. But Apocalypse
was a raging tyrant, while Sinister was a careful orchestrator, and he had no doubt that Horace
was right: "Brute force bereft of wisdom falls to ruin by its own weight."
Apocalypse lifted his massive blue head and regarded Sinister with a baleful eye. "You are late,
Essex."
"My apologies," Sinister said. He waved his hand and the workers dispersed instantly. "I have
come from the laboratory chamber; the Horsemen candidates are ready."
Apocalypse nodded once, curtly, and rose. Sinister allowed him to lead the way out of the room
and down the corridor, because otherwise the ancient mutant would be offended.
And right now, he did not want to offend Apocalypse.
They entered the laboratory - a pale imitation of his lost New York complex - and Sinister saw
that his four prospective Horsemen were precisely where he had left them, standing in a line at
perfect attention.
Pleased with his work, he reviewed the four along with Apocalypse, giving a running narration as
the tyrant made his way down the line.
"Abraham Kieros," Sinister said, "whom I have outfitted as War. He is, appropriately enough, a
military veteran, having been driven into the sewers by his inability to cope with the stresses of
his bloody memories."
War, his eyes the flat white of a stereotypical zombie, did not show a flicker of life as
Apocalypse looked him over. The metal suit of armor he wore had been fashioned to resemble
that of medieval knights, although it was augmented by an underlying web of cybernetics. Two
swords were strapped to his back, and a mace hung from his wide leather belt. Kieros, in
addition to being in the right place at the right time, and being a very competent soldier, had a
latent mutant talent to create concussive blasts and explosions. He was a good catch.
Apocalypse nodded curtly and moved to the next Horseman. She was a petite girl, tall enough
but so wasted that her bones showed clearly through her skin. Her eyes, sunk deep into the
hollows of her orbits, had a dull, filmy sheen, and she showed no sign that she noticed the two
men looming over her.
"Autumn Rolfson. A pitful wretch, cursed with the ability to emaciate any living organism,
including herself, as you can see. Perfect, I should think, for the role of Famine."
Apocalypse reached out a hand, perhaps to test the strength of Famine's frail-looking form, but
Sinister quickly blocked him. "I wouldn't, unless you want to lose even more of your power."
"A weapon that wounds its bearer is of no use," Apocalypse said, warningly.
Sinister laid a hand on Famine's painfully thin shoulder, safely shielded by the dark violet layer of
her outfit; he had designed the material to be precisely thick enough to block her power, but not
so thick that it caused undo feedback (literally) to the girl. "Ah, but this weapon will do as told,
and its bearer can stay safely removed."
"Clever," Apocalypse said, and Sinister had the distinct feeling that it was anything but a
compliment.
"This one," he said, gesturing toward the third Horseman, "had no name, just the simple moniker
of 'Plague'. She causes illness with a touch. I have boosted that power, and she is now ready to
serve as Pestilence."
As a result of his genetic alterations, Pestilence's skin had turned a sickly shade of green, which
only enhanced the feverish gleam in her eyes. She, unlike the rest, gazed back at Apocalypse
with something like awareness. Sinister was slightly concerned about her mental state; he
thought she was very likely unbalanced, even more so than the traumatized Kieros. That was not
dangerous, in and of itself, but his delicate brainwashing process might not have filtered through
all of the cracks in her fractured mind.
Apocalypse tilted his head, considering, and then dismissed her from his attenion. "I see you
have saved your masterpiece for the last."
Again, it was said with derision, but Sinister was proud at the statement anyway. The final
Horseman was indeed his masterpiece, a flawless melding of flesh and machine, created to kill and
nothing else. He valued elegance - the pure simplicity of function that nature decreed - and the
arching metal wings were elegant indeed. An improvement on the originals by any measure.
"Warren Worthington III," Sinister said triumphantly. "An unexpected prize. He's the heir to a
vast fortune, a fact which you might care to exploit later. I have made some improvements on
him as well."
"An angel of Death." Apocalypse's wide mouth twitched - whether in amusement or another
emotion, Sinister could not tell.
"He is the strongest of the four, and undoubtedly the smartest. Suitable for leadership," Sinister
said, knowing that Apocalypse would find his suggestion suspect, but would ultimately agree.
" 'They who enter this sacred tomb shall swift be visited by wings of death,' " he added, unable
to resist.
Apocalypse, caught in the midst of brooding, raised one eyebrow.
"Oh, yes, that's correct - you weren't around for Carter and Carnarvon, those bloody idiots,"
Sinister said. He maintained a level, even upbeat tone, knowing that would gall Apocalypse
more; the entire reason the ancient mutant had missed the 1922 excavation - indeed, all of the
twentieth century - was because Natheniel Essex had reninged on his deal to free him. "That was
the curse of Tutankhamen, supposedly. The real curse was the three-thousand-year-old
microbes and fungal spores lining the tomb. Simple paper masks would have saved their lives,
but they were too ignorant to know it."
"Then they did not deserve to live," Apocalypse said with finality, and took Worthington's jaw
in his hand and lifted his head, examining him with that burning glare as he would an animal.
Worthington stared straight ahead, blankly. "Do you know, Essex, what 'angel' means?"
" 'Messenger,' " he answered without pause, having brushed up on his knowledge of the ancient
world since En Sabah Nur's return.
"It is most fitting," Apocalypse mused in his deep rumble of a voice. "Such a herald would show
the impudent vermin my power."
Sinister said nothing, letting himself experience a wave of warm self-praise. He might not have
chosen the task (and certainly not the position of being shackled to a mad god's whims), but he
had done the job to the utmost limits of his abilities, and was proud of himself.
"You have done well," Apocalypse said after a long minute, releasing Worthington and stepping
back. "These four are all that I asked they be."
"You sound surprised," Sinister said. He was not, although his ego was suitably flattered by the
confirmation of what he already knew.
Apocalypse gestured, bored. "Your past actions do you no credit, tinkerer."
Sinister inclined his head, acknowledging at the truth of that without expressly admitting it.
"That is why," Apocalypse said, his tone still bespeaking boredom, "I demand a demonstration."
"A demonstration?" Sinister asked sharply. Apocalypse narrowed his eyes, and Sinister hastily
added an entirely perfunctory, "My dread lord."
"I seek proof, Essex, that you are keeping your word." Apocalypse turned away from Sinister
and the Four Horsemen. A small crew of workers immediately surrounded him, quickly and
unobstrusively attaching wires and tubes to the massive body. "I have already implanted barriers
in their minds, to circumvent your own manipulations, but I want proof incontrivertible. An
excercise."
Sinister had anticipated this response from the beginning (including the mental interference), and
so he now had to make a show of thinking about it before he said, "If I may suggest a location,
First One...?"
Apocalypse raised a hand, indicating that he should continue.
"The United States military has a facility in the mountains of Utah - a place they do not
acknowledge as existing. How much more would they deny, I wonder, an attack on this base?"
Sinister paused for dramatic effect - and to see what Apocalypse's reaction would be - before
venturing into truly dangerous territory. "At the moment, you lack the strength to mount a
counterattack; therefore, secrecy would be your best ally."
Apocalypse had gone very still, listening to Sinister's words. Sinister could practically see the
gears turning in his mind as he calculated the merits of the plan. After an interminable moment,
Apocalypse turned around and closed the distance between them, shedding workers as he went,
until he was nearly standing on top of Sinister - the better to intimidate. Sinister was not
impressed.
"Do not forget," Apocalypse said, his breath swirling down digustingly hot on Sinister's face,
"that you too are in this business, and secrecy is your ally as well - but that, _that_ you know
very well already, my prodigal servant."
Sinister sketched a half-bow. "If you say, dread lord."
Apocalypse's face twisted into a muderous scowl, eyes glowing brightly with rage. From past
experience, Sinister expected the mutant to lash out in a mildly irritating demonstration of brute
power. He had certainly earned a reprimand, with his delibrately mocking tone; it had been a
foolish thing to do, perhaps even mortally so, but he chafed under Apocalypse's yoke. A barbed
comment every so often did wonders for his own meglomania, although it never helped block the
blows from Apocalypse's fists. This time, though, Apocalypse merely straightened abruptly
and turned his back on Sinister. "You will escort the Horsemen to this military facility
immediately."
"As you wish," Sinister said. "It will, however, take some time to prepare them for combat, and
to set up a monitering system for your benefit."
Apocalypse growled, sending workers scurrying. "Without delays, tinkerer."
Sinister allowed himself a small smile. "As you wish."
~~
Storm walked through the hallways of the Institute silently, feeling the utter futility of their
search through every inch of her body. She also felt the bruises she'd incurred on the mission;
injuries that would last far longer for her than they would for Wolverine. In fact, his wounds had
already healed.
Carol was engaged in a heated conversation with Beast at the base of the foyer stairs, with Jean
and Cyclops standing discreetly off to one side. The talking and the listening broke off abruptly,
however, when Carol saw Wolverine.
"Logan," she said. "Tell me good news."
"Sorry, Ace," he said. "They were gone."
Several outcries of "what?" and "gone?" answered him, but they were drowned out by Carol's
truly furious, "What do you _mean_, GONE?!"
"Gone," Storm repeated. "We checked the entire facility. It was stripped clean of any people or
equipment."
Carol hit her open hand against the wall, putting a sizable dent in the plaster. "I can't BELIEVE
this! Did you find anything - any clues pointing to where they might have vanished?"
"No," Wolverine said, shaking his head with visible disappointment. "Ace, there was nothin'
there except the walls, the floors, and a few nasty boobytraps. And the whole place blew
seconds after we cleared out."
Carol dropped her head and sighed. "I still should have been there with you. With my seventh
sense... Maybe we could have found something."
"Maybe," Storm said, lifting her eyes to the stairwell, "and perhaps we have something right
here."
The others looked at her, identical small frowns creasing their dissimilar faces, and then Beast
snapped his fingers. "Of course! Remy - he knew about Mystique, and she did insinuate that
he'd worked for Sinister - he might know where other laboratories are located!"
Wolverine sniffed the air. "It's a bit of a long shot, Hank, and I don't think Gumbo's gonna be
givin' us any answers anyway."
"Why not?" Cyclops asked, but the adults and Carol were already running up the stairs.
Storm was first into the room. She crossed over to the window and tested it; it looked closed,
but swung outward when she pushed on it. [Oh, Remy,] she thought, [what have you done?]
"He's gone," Wolverine said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Left a few hours ago."
"Why?" Carol asked, and Storm had to sigh. She shut the window and locked it again, making a
mental note to reset the alarm.
"He stayed here because of Rogue," Jean said. "And - I think I saw him in the basement when
Beast, Carol, and the professor were talking about, um, Carol. He must have overheard."
Cyclops shook his head. "But there's still a chance. Why would he leave?"
Storm, who had moved over to the bed, picked up a playing card that was lying on the pillow. A
queen of hearts; her own heart broke a little for the thief. "Because, for him, history is repeating
itself." She handed the card to Carol and said, "Place that in Rogue's room. Somewhere safe."
Carol accepted the card wordlessly.
"Remy is Thieves' Guild royalty," Storm explained. "His father is their unquestioned leader.
That much I knew from the beginning. Soon after he joined us, though, I sent a message to my
teacher, Achmed el-Gibar, in Cairo, asking him if he knew anything more about Remy."
"I'm guessin' he did," Logan said.
"Yes. To end their feud for good, Remy was betrothed to his counterpart in the Assassins'
Guild, a young woman named Belladonna Boudreaux. Her brother, Julien, objected to the match;
there was a fight, and the betrothal was called off. As a consequence, Remy was forbidden to
have any further contact with the Assassins, including Belladonna. Shortly after that, Mesmero
arrived in New Orleans, and it no longer mattered."
Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Jean said, softly but with heartfelt feeling, "That
sucks."
Wolverine growled. "More for us than him. Now we're workin' in the dark."
Storm sighed. As much as she disliked his lack of compassion, she had to admit that he was
right.
"So much for finding Sinister," Cyclops said, and turned to go.
Carol and the rest of the X-Men left the room, disgruntled with their former teammate, but Ororo
stayed behind. "You could not have chosen a worse time, Remy LeBeau," she told the empty
space that used to be his, and then she too left.