Note: I meant to say this earlier, but I forgot. "Dr. Nathan Milbury" is an alias Sinister has used in the comics.
And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider's name was Death...
- Revelation 6:8
True to his impatient nature, Apocalypse did not let them waste any time. Sinister took a dozen workers aside and set them to a new task through the rest of the day and all of the night, and shortly after dawn the results stood ready for use.
The finished products were a tremendous achievement for someone who was, Death's wings notwithstanding, more used to crafting flesh than metal. The three Horsemen who could not fly on their own would now have artificial creatures capable of just that - and more besides. In a moment of inspiration, Sinister had ordered the three horse-like machines to be colored as the Bible dictated: white, red, and black.
Due to the extremely complex nature of the three vehicles, he had been forced to cannibalize some of Apocalypse's last remaining technology, but the ancient mutant had not protested and, privately, Sinister was glad to take away part of his advantage, however small.
He stood in his laboratory with the Horsemen behind him, waiting for Apocalypse to arrive and give the final order that would send them all on their way, and thought of the other means by which he was stealing the tyrant's advantage. If Apocalypse was blind enough to leave the new regeneration equipment unchecked, well, then, he was unfit to live; his own rules said so.
Apocalypse finally appeared in the doorway, trailing tubes, wires, and a bevy of attendant workers. Despite the ridiculousness of his appearance, Apocalypse had lost none of his authority, and when he rumbled, "Disappoint me and you will not regret it long, Essex," Sinister felt an actual sliver of fear.
It was followed in short order by bubbling, seething fury. He so rarely took real pleasure in business affairs, but this betrayal he would savor.
Even more than the first one.
Sinister inclined his head. "I will not."
"We will not disappoint you, dread lord," the Horsemen said as one, and without Sinister's prompting; Apocalypse was, unsurprisingly, controlling them through his telepathy.
Apocalypse tilted his head back, a triumphant expression flickering across his face before it returned to its usual faint scowl. "I know you will not. Be away, then."
Death snapped to attention, and the three mounted Horsemen reined their horses sharply. Sinister, rather looking forward to the next part, managed something approaching a respectful nod as Apocalypse teleported them across the world.
Two of the three teachers were waiting outside when Xavier returned the Institute, early in the morning after Gambit had disappeared. He had taken a (frustratingly slow) commercial flight home because he had taken one out, and he did not want to draw attention to Muir Island by reappearing on the other side of the Atlantic without passing through an airport. Moira was convinced her research center was being watched, and he believed her.
Ororo, who always offered to chauffeur him, had this time been preoccupied with rewiring the alarm system, and Logan had picked him up from the airport instead. It had been a silent ride, despite Xavier's attempts to question the other mutant about Rogue's condition. Now, as the van pulled to a rather jolting stop in front of the main door, Logan said, "It's surreal, Chuck. That's the best I can say about it."
He waited, and a few moments later, just as he'd anticipated, Logan shook his head. "I knew Ace, and it's her in there. She even smells the same... But it's Rogue's body. The kids are freaked out about it, and I'm not sure I can claim any better."
That was a major admission. Xavier regarded him with fresh concern; the situation must have been worse than he'd imagined for Logan to say something like that. Again, he cursed himself for leaving the students; Moira had needed his help, and he could never refuse her, but the complexities of the project had kept him away for far too long in this crisis.
He wondered if he had arrived home only to bear helpless witness to something that had spiraled beyond all of their control.
He was not heartened, either, by the lines of worry etched into Ororo's face. "Welcome home, Charles," she said as he emerged from the van.
"Ororo, Hank," he said, greeting them both with what he feared was a very uninspiring smile. "Has there been any word on Gambit's location?"
"Cerebro tracked him to D.C., but after that he vanished," Beast said. He held the door open for the rest of the group as they went inside. "We haven't been able to reacquire him."
Xavier was not surprised. Remy LeBeau, despite his youth, was a master thief, and quite adept at hiding when he did not want to be found. He decided not to pursue the boy; their plate was full enough already, and they had nothing to offer Remy if they did find him. "Anything else I should know about?"
Ororo ran a hand through her hair, smiling faintly. "Scott and Jean have lost their significant others."
He actually chuckled at that bit of news - a small glimmer of promise amid this sudden gathering of ill fortune. "I imagine that caused quite a stir."
"They're the talk of Bayville High," Beast said, offering up his own smile. "Not to mention the Institute."
Xavier smiled for a moment longer before returning his attention to the important matter at hand. "Now, where is Carol? I would like to talk to her further."
"She's waiting in the Cerebro room." Beast hesitated, then said, "Professor, I don't think she wants any more tests run on her. Right now her primary concern seems to be the location of her real body. If you could focus on that..."
"Noted," Xavier said, nodding in true gratitude. They did not have much time to waste.
Ororo descended the elevator with him, to go back to the alarm system, and Beast and Logan returned to supervising the students. Saturday mornings were always hectic.
He entered the Cerebro room alone, and the young woman at the end of the platform looked up almost before he had turned the doorway. She stood straight and tall, exuding confidence, and was clearly not the Rogue the X-Men had come to know.
Her mind was a tangled, confused mess of psi prints, dominated by Carol Danvers' strong, almost overbearing, personality - but deep in the shadow of that, gaining strength itself, was the feeble flicker of Rogue's psyche. Xavier was glad that Beast had warned him against further tests. It would have been an utter waste of time; a telepathic search would not have gotten far with such a struggle in progress, and the very nature of Rogue's power had always made her notoriously difficult to scan.
"Professor Xavier, sir," Carol said. "I hope you had a nice flight."
"Very nice, by conventional standards," he said. "I'm afraid, though, that the Blackbird has spoiled me."
She nodded. "Oh, yeah, I saw that. Pretty superior chunk of metal. There are at least two dozen countries that would give their eyeteeth for a fighter jet with its capabilities."
"I'm certain there are," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Good thing I don't care about money," she said, winking and flashing a brilliant smile, and he was charmed despite himself.
"Indeed." Xavier picked up the helmet and slipped it over his head, a familiar and soothing gesture that never failed to calm him. "I understand you'd like to find your body."
"Yes I would," she said, leaning forward, over his shoulder, to better see what he was doing. "Oh, yes, I would. But only if it's breathing."
Nestled in a rare flat spot between mountains, the base, half-jokingly referred to as "Area 52" by the soldiers who guarded its secrets, was a fortress in all but appearance. Its handful of buildings, laid out in a small grid next to a simple tarmac runway, were unremarkable things of cinderblock architecture, and only a few of them had so much as as a satellite dish showing.
Nevertheless, it bristled with the most advanced weaponry systems the military-industrial complex had to offer, and the soldiers manning them were also highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives. They had no compunctions about shooting to kill.
Because of its importance, the base had been designed to withstand almost any kind of attack, from ground assault to a nuclear strike. It should have taken an army several days to make it past the first line of defenses.
The Four Horsemen reached the heart of the base in exactly six minutes.
Mr. Sinister followed behind them on the ground, hands clasped behind his back in satisfaction. Death's wings were working flawlessly, as were the last-second horses; those had been his two greatest worries, and now they had lifted. He was having a most agreeable day.
A small group of soldiers had regrouped in front of them, forming a line of high-powered resistance. "Surrender or be destroyed!" one of them shouted, the fear and panic obvious.
Death halted his flight, drawing himself straight and pointing at the soldiers. "You are nothing in the eyes of Apocalypse! Seek thee to make war? - we shall rain war upon you!"
War, needing no further prompting, clapped his hands together. Light flared around them, and a split second later the soldiers were enveloped in a fiery explosion. They screamed.
Pestilence began to laugh, a thoroughly insane sound, and Sinister was reminded of Riptide. Then the green-skinned Horseman swooped down on the survivors, and the screaming intensified. Famine followed, pressing her hands to the mens' faces one-by-one, and they shriveled into skeletons where they lay.
A bullet nicked his shoulder, throwing him slightly off-balance even as the wound knit closed again. Sinister turned to face the hapless soldier who had fired the shot and raised his hand, aiming casually. A blast of reddish energy lept from his open palm and knocked the soldier into a wall. The man fell to a limp heap on the ground.
Sinister strolled over to him, taking his time. The soldier looked up as he approached, and even if he had not been a medical doctor Sinister would have recognized the signs of a dying man. A thin line of blood leaked from his mouth, staining the concrete in dark red blotches; he tried to speak and only coughed up more blood.
He also tried to raise his weapon. Sinister kicked it away, then looked over his shoulder at the one-sided battle raging behind him.
Death was hovering above the scene, arms spread in benediction of the murderous acts being committed below. Famine was idly wandering among the soldiers, killing those who were only injured. War was nowhere to be seen, but several explosions rocked the base in quick succession. Pestilence was wheeling her horse around to attack one of the few defense batteries still firing. Blood was everywhere. Fear hung over the survivors like a shroud.
They were the Four Horsemen. No man or mutant could look upon this work and argue that the Apocalypse was not at hand. Sinister had done his job to true perfection.
The dark majesty of it all made him feel that some symbolic gesture of the occasion was in order; he briefly, unseriously, considered the music of 'Die Walkure' but dismissed it as overly melodramatic. To be honest, he'd never held Richard Wagner's operatics in much esteem, and his low opinion of Teutonic intellect had declined even further after his dealings with Josef Mengele, whose experiments had been crude and his research, slipshod. In addition to those crimes of science, the idiot had decimated a rich and promising genepool. Sinister quite regretted ever deigning to work with him.
He settled on something more appropriate for a Englishman of good breeding like himself, and watched the unfolding carnage with Shakespeare in mind.
" 'Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath,' " he quoted, crouching to collect a small blood sample from the dying soldier at his feet. " 'Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.' "
As if on cue, Death streaked overhead, wings flashing, and, checking the progress of the other Horsemen, Sinister judged that he had waited long enough. He tucked away the blood sample and straightened, striding across the gore-spattered tarmac and muttering to himself, " 'Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight...' "
Pestilence began cackling madly somewhere not too far away, drowning out the dying moans of soldiers. The sound made Sinister quicken his step. It also made him narrow his eyes and smile. He finished the quote, paraphrasing slightly: "Let you be beaten if you cannot fight."
The man who now called himself Mr. Sinister was many things, but he was never so foolish as to be caught without a backup plan.
If the X-Men had taken his counterweapon to the Horsemen, they would have to use her themselves - half-finished though she was. Letting Apocalypse keep his new servants, who did their jobs so well, was simply out of the question.
Which was why, even as the Horsemen cut a swath of devastation through the base, he paused inside one bunker just long enough to check the time on the East Coast, and then, using an ability he'd purloined from the DNA of the master he no longer served, quietly teleported himself away.
"No luck, I'm afraid," Xavier said, taking off the gray metal helmet. "Wherever your body is, Carol, I can't find it."
She exhaled slowly, leaning forward against the console. "I'm dead, aren't I, Professor?"
"Not necessarily," he said. "There could be any number of reasons... beginning with the fact that you aren't truly a mutant. Am I right?"
So someone had finally figured it out. Putting aside for the moment her likely mortality, Carol nodded. "Do you think I would've dreamed of signing on for military service if I was?"
He folded his hands beneath his chin and regarded her with intense curiosity. "May I ask what you are, then?"
She laughed - gently, because it wasn't an outlandish question by any means. "A girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and got between a couple of people she shouldn't have. The rest of it is classified as a matter of national security."
"I see," Xavier said, eyes narrowing slightly - not out of displeasure, but calculation. Carol had seen the look before, on everyone from heads of state to her own parents, as they tried to figure out what kind of national security rested in the secrets of a pretty, blonde woman.
She wondered what Xavier would think of the civil war that had spilled onto Cape Canaveral one night before a shuttle launch, early into the program; of the relative rookie who'd been dispatched to deal with the problem without knowing what it was; of the weapon that had caught her in the genetic shadow of one of the combatants and left her with all the powers of a Kree warrior.
President Reagan had been horrified by the nation's vulnerability. Her parents had tried to put her into therapy. Nick Fury had just frowned and told her that she was working for him from then on.
She had the feeling that Xavier would react the in same way that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s exobiology technicians in Utah had: by interrogating her for days and listening to everything with rapt fascination.
Academics - throw the proof of intelligent, extraterrestrial life in their faces and they went bananas. Go figure.
"Like you," she added, as an afterthought, "I didn't choose to be this way. And like you, I've tried to use my gifts to make the world better and safer. So how I got them is really not the important factor here."
"Agreed," Xavier said, nodding once. "Still, I..."
He broke off as an insistent beeping filled the spherical room, along with a flashing holographic warning that popped up right in front of their faces.
Carol read the warning with narrowed eyes. " 'Unknown transmission source.' But they obviously know you."
Xavier said nothing, but he was frowning as he pressed a quick sequence of keys. The holographic display blurred out, then was replaced by a video feed. The signal was clear and steady, and while she didn't recognize the well-groomed man on the screen, it was clear that Xavier did.
"Dr. Milbury," he said, the frown turning into a look of total surprise. "How did you -?"
"The creature comes from the east, Charles Xavier, but turn your eyes to the west," Milbury said, smirking, and then the signal abruptly transitioned into something new. This feed was black-and-white and grainy, with no sound, and full of intermittent bursts of static that blotted out the entire picture, but there was no doubt as to what it showed.
Soldiers, being cut down where they stood, locked in a futile fight for their lives against enemies who moved too swiftly for their images to be caught cleanly by the video camera.
"My God," Carol said, too stunned to think of anything else.
The horrific picture blinked out just as suddenly as it had begun, the transmission terminated from the other end, and she broke out of her trance, turning to Professor Xavier to see what his reaction was.
He had frozen, his face gone completely blank, and she had a moment of fear that he had suffered a heart attack or something equally serious. Then he stirred, shaking his head, and rubbed his eyes. "Not God," he said heavily. "Not God at all."
"Then who was that?"
"Almost certainly, agents of a madman who calls himself Apocalypse," Xavier said; his hands were shaking slightly. "What fools we were to think he had been destroyed... 'The creature from the east' - a clear reference to the Beast of Revelation."
"The apocalypse," Carol said, confirming, and he nodded. That mystery solved, she demanded, "So who is Milbury?"
"Milbury is... a colleague of Dr. MacTaggert." Xavier shook his head again. "A doctor - a geneticist, to be more precise - and quite brilliant. Although how he managed to access this line is beyond me..."
Dr. Milbury's brilliant - lightyears ahead of everyone else in his field!
Carol started, the memory hitting her with more force than any fist could hope to. "Risty knew him!"
"Risty?"
"She told me - Rogue - that Dr. Milbury could cure her," she explained, pressing her hand to her forehead in an effort to coax more fugitive memories to the surface. "And I think Rogue... went to see him?"
Xavier did nothing for a moment, then put his own hand to his temple. "Logan, Hank, report to Cerebro immediately." He looked up at her in concern. "Carol, are you experiencing Rogue's memories?"
"Just the one," she said. "Why?"
"It's probably nothing," he said, and any further conversation was put on hold by the arrival of Logan, and right after him, Beast.
"What's the rush, Charles?" Logan asked.
"Several things," Xavier told them. "You were both here the night Rogue disappeared. Did she leave with Risty?"
Logan nodded. "Yeah. 'Risty' said they were goin' to a party, but I don't buy that for a second."
"Carol believes they were going to see a geneticist named Dr. Milbury," Xavier said. "But his work is based in London."
"Dr. Nathan Milbury?" Beast asked, sounding surprised. "He was scheduled to present a paper at a medical conference in New York City last week. He canceled at the last minute - a very big disappointment to everyone, including myself. I was looking forward to hearing about his latest research."
"And now he's sending cryptic messages about Apocalypse over secured lines," Carol said, jerking her head in the direction of the console.
Logan growled, "Apocalypse?" just as Beast exclaimed, "What?"
Xavier sighed and replayed the message for them. Carol watched both of them, instead of the screen; Beast was just as horror-struck as she had been, but Logan, hardened to sights of that kind, only winced. And then he frowned and said, "Hold on - play that again."
"Did you see something?" Xavier asked.
"Yeah." He pointed at the black-and-white feed. "Watch the static bursts."
Carol did, and after the first few, she suddenly saw the pattern. "It's Morse code!"
"Numbers," Logan said. "Coordinates. Whoever Milbury really is, he left us an address."
"Out West somewhere," Carol said, squinting at the static. "But where?"
Beast coughed and politely nudged Carol aside, taking her place beside Xavier at the console. "If we can access the main computer for a moment, I believe I can answer that question."
His thick, clawed fingers flew over the keys, and a flat, two-dimensional map of the world popped up over their heads. It zoomed in to the southwestern United States, then zoomed in again immediately to a remote corner of Utah.
"The middle of nowhere, it looks like," Logan said.
Xavier said, "But there were buildings, and soldiers - clearly some kind of military installation."
"Maybe Milbury - or whoever the sender was - meant that the people responsible for the atrocities could be found at this site," Beast suggested.
"No, I know this terrain," Carol said, shaking her finger at the map. "It's a military base. I served there as part of a S.H.I.E.L.D. security detail."
"It's not on anything we have," Beast said.
"That's because they don't like to advertise."
"Why? What do they do there?"
Carol grinned. "Have you ever seen 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'?"
The others exchanged glances. Beast asked, cautiously, "Why?"
"Oh, no real reason," Carol said, still grinning. Her grin faded and she became serious again, adding, "But we had better get out there in a hurry."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "You always did have more guts than sense, Ace -"
"Which is why we got along so well," she interrupted, giving him a knowing look.
He ignored her and went on, "- because this has 'trap' written all over it, and you're already set on goin' in."
"Logan, I don't care if it's the Hun army come back from beyond the grave," Carol said, putting emphasis on every word. "We've been given information, and we have to use it. You guys clearly have some history with this Apocalypse yutz. Do you think we can afford to sit back and ignore this?"
"No," Xavier said, firmly. "We will ready the Blackbird for departure immediately. Although I would like to know how Milbury arranged this."
"So would I," she said, and she meant it. The first time she'd seen him, he'd looked unremarkable. But the second viewing, and the third, had left her with a niggling sense of deja vu, and she'd long ago learned to trust her instincts when it came to that kind of stuff. The first rule of investigating was "There Are No Coincidences," and that maxim applied to psionic clues as well.
Milbury didn't physically resemble anyone she knew, or had known; the whole mystery might be solved by the simple fact that Rogue had met with him, and her memory had bubbled up, but Carol didn't think so. There was something else - something in his body language, maybe, or his voice...
No, not the voice - it was his tone that was so familiar, she realized. That polite, cultured tone that nonetheless oozed sarcasm. She'd heard it before, and recently, but she couldn't quite place it. Someone... someone with a slightly different voice... more sibilant?
She smacked her fist against her open palm in frustration. If she could just remember -!
Do be careful what you wish for, Ms. Danvers, the voice whispered in her mind, and all the pieces fell into place.
"Sinister," she said, spitting the name out. "Milbury is Sinister in disguise."
The three men stared back at her, apparently stunned.
After a moment, Beast said, "Well. That explains quite a bit, I guess."
"Logan, prep the plane," Xavier ordered. He had gone nearly ashen, but there was iron in his voice. "Beast and Carol, get the students. I have to contact Moira immediately."
"Why?" Carol asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
"Because Dr. Nathan Milbury is at Muir Island right now."