JOURNEY OF A KNIGHT
CHAPTER III. EAGLE'S NIGHT
(DISCLAIMER: The Age of Apocalypse, The X-Men, Charles Xavier, and all related characters are copyrights of Marvel Comics. The Knight Eagle, in all his various iterations, as well as his teammates, is my own personal creations)
1967
"I don't care what it takes, but you have to move on it now."
"But, Jason…"
"Don't give me any buts, Leon, just get it done."
Stalking away, Jason Lane McElros, CEO McElros International, undid the buttons of his suit jacket and opened the door to his office. Running a hand through his hair, he dropped down heavily into the chair behind his desk. It had been nearly a year since he had finished business school and taken over the day-to-day management of M.I. Now it seemed as if every day was consumed with board meetings and meetings with various consultants. Colin's death six years before had sent shockwaves rippling through the national economy. It had taken years for M.I. to recover from the backlash of losing its head. As long as it had taken, the task was complete, and Jason sat at the head of one of the most powerful companies in the world.
Sitting at his desk, Jason looked out the window as the sun set over downtown London. In the past two years, the city had become a haven for a new breed of criminal. London PD had been struggling to meet the demands put on it by the increasing number of superhuman crimes. The "Mutant Problem" had reached the English shore, and there was no solution in sight.
"'If you're not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem.'" Platitudes from business school, he thought, but strangely fitting in this case. "Time to be a part of the solution."
He took a set of car keys from his desk and changed out of the suit into street clothes, jeans and a brown leather jacket. As he headed toward the personal service elevator, he tapped a wall panel intercom.
"Evelyn, hold the rest of my calls for the day. I have some things that I need to finish. If Stark calls, tell him I'll speak with him tomorrow."
He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and rode the elevator down to the employee-level garages, where he climbed into a late model brown sedan, hardly the kind of car you would expect one of the ten wealthiest men in the world to ride around in. The nondescript car rolled out onto the streets of rush-hour London. Jason navigated through the traffic of downtown, turning down side streets and alleys until he reached a portion of the city that the traffic didn't reach. The immediate skyline had changed from towers of steel and glass to squat warehouses and docks. He stopped the sedan in front of plain looking warehouse and got out. He pulled a key from the jacket pocket and turned it in a lock by the large cargo door. The door slid up and Jason climbed back into the car, pulling it just inside. A pressure plate in the floor closed the door as Jason got out once again, headed for the freight elevator in the rear of the building. Stepping in, he placed his hand on the seemingly plain panel below the elevator's control buttons, causing it to light up as it recognized his palm-print. The elevator doors slid shut and Jason could hear the metal plating below opening. Had anyone pried open the shaft door, they would have found only a concrete slab below the ground floor. That slab slid away to reveal metal doors, which opened, letting the elevator descend.
Moments later the elevator door rolled up to reveal a clean, well- lit, expansive space. A variety of workbenches were neatly lined against the walls. At the center of the room was a gleaming black custom motorcycle that Jason had built himself. It was one of a kind. Jason had commissioned the parts in secret from a variety of McElros plants across the globe, never having more than one made in any one place. Every surface was glossy black, even the exhaust pipes that slid seamlessly out from the sides. It was an engineering marvel, capable of speeds over 160 miles per hour and almost completely silent.
Passing by the bike, Jason stopped in front of a simple looking wardrobe. He pulled open the door and removed his "working clothes". He slid on the black utility pants, and then tied the black boots. He tugged on a thick black turtleneck sweater, then looked for a moment at the last few items in the wardrobe. There was a pair of black leather gloves, their balms thick with padding and insulation. He pulled them on. He removed a black leather jacket, which he slipped on. When he had zipped it up, the figure of a white bird stitched on the chest became clear. The last item was the mask. It was solid black, with two white opaque eyeholes cut into it. Inside it was fitted with dozens of small electronic devices, from a police band radio in the ear, to a voice distorter where the mouth would be. He held it in his hands for a moment. He had trained for years to come to this point. It was now time. He slid the mask over his head and tugged it into place. He turned to the mirror on the wardrobe door and looked. Jason McElros had vanished, replaced by a menacing figure.
Striding to the motorcycle, he climbed on and put on the helmet hanging from the handlebars, a near-match to the facemask.
"Go." He said, and the optic connection between the helmet and the bike's engine sent the signal to start. The powerful engine roared to life and the bike raced forward into a dark tunnel. The Night Eagle rode to meet destiny.
CHAPTER III. EAGLE'S NIGHT
(DISCLAIMER: The Age of Apocalypse, The X-Men, Charles Xavier, and all related characters are copyrights of Marvel Comics. The Knight Eagle, in all his various iterations, as well as his teammates, is my own personal creations)
1967
"I don't care what it takes, but you have to move on it now."
"But, Jason…"
"Don't give me any buts, Leon, just get it done."
Stalking away, Jason Lane McElros, CEO McElros International, undid the buttons of his suit jacket and opened the door to his office. Running a hand through his hair, he dropped down heavily into the chair behind his desk. It had been nearly a year since he had finished business school and taken over the day-to-day management of M.I. Now it seemed as if every day was consumed with board meetings and meetings with various consultants. Colin's death six years before had sent shockwaves rippling through the national economy. It had taken years for M.I. to recover from the backlash of losing its head. As long as it had taken, the task was complete, and Jason sat at the head of one of the most powerful companies in the world.
Sitting at his desk, Jason looked out the window as the sun set over downtown London. In the past two years, the city had become a haven for a new breed of criminal. London PD had been struggling to meet the demands put on it by the increasing number of superhuman crimes. The "Mutant Problem" had reached the English shore, and there was no solution in sight.
"'If you're not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem.'" Platitudes from business school, he thought, but strangely fitting in this case. "Time to be a part of the solution."
He took a set of car keys from his desk and changed out of the suit into street clothes, jeans and a brown leather jacket. As he headed toward the personal service elevator, he tapped a wall panel intercom.
"Evelyn, hold the rest of my calls for the day. I have some things that I need to finish. If Stark calls, tell him I'll speak with him tomorrow."
He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and rode the elevator down to the employee-level garages, where he climbed into a late model brown sedan, hardly the kind of car you would expect one of the ten wealthiest men in the world to ride around in. The nondescript car rolled out onto the streets of rush-hour London. Jason navigated through the traffic of downtown, turning down side streets and alleys until he reached a portion of the city that the traffic didn't reach. The immediate skyline had changed from towers of steel and glass to squat warehouses and docks. He stopped the sedan in front of plain looking warehouse and got out. He pulled a key from the jacket pocket and turned it in a lock by the large cargo door. The door slid up and Jason climbed back into the car, pulling it just inside. A pressure plate in the floor closed the door as Jason got out once again, headed for the freight elevator in the rear of the building. Stepping in, he placed his hand on the seemingly plain panel below the elevator's control buttons, causing it to light up as it recognized his palm-print. The elevator doors slid shut and Jason could hear the metal plating below opening. Had anyone pried open the shaft door, they would have found only a concrete slab below the ground floor. That slab slid away to reveal metal doors, which opened, letting the elevator descend.
Moments later the elevator door rolled up to reveal a clean, well- lit, expansive space. A variety of workbenches were neatly lined against the walls. At the center of the room was a gleaming black custom motorcycle that Jason had built himself. It was one of a kind. Jason had commissioned the parts in secret from a variety of McElros plants across the globe, never having more than one made in any one place. Every surface was glossy black, even the exhaust pipes that slid seamlessly out from the sides. It was an engineering marvel, capable of speeds over 160 miles per hour and almost completely silent.
Passing by the bike, Jason stopped in front of a simple looking wardrobe. He pulled open the door and removed his "working clothes". He slid on the black utility pants, and then tied the black boots. He tugged on a thick black turtleneck sweater, then looked for a moment at the last few items in the wardrobe. There was a pair of black leather gloves, their balms thick with padding and insulation. He pulled them on. He removed a black leather jacket, which he slipped on. When he had zipped it up, the figure of a white bird stitched on the chest became clear. The last item was the mask. It was solid black, with two white opaque eyeholes cut into it. Inside it was fitted with dozens of small electronic devices, from a police band radio in the ear, to a voice distorter where the mouth would be. He held it in his hands for a moment. He had trained for years to come to this point. It was now time. He slid the mask over his head and tugged it into place. He turned to the mirror on the wardrobe door and looked. Jason McElros had vanished, replaced by a menacing figure.
Striding to the motorcycle, he climbed on and put on the helmet hanging from the handlebars, a near-match to the facemask.
"Go." He said, and the optic connection between the helmet and the bike's engine sent the signal to start. The powerful engine roared to life and the bike raced forward into a dark tunnel. The Night Eagle rode to meet destiny.