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The Ascensión of The Twelve: Second Gathering
Author: Jenskott
Summary: After of the Gathering of The Twelve the machine and the technology of Apocalypse was abandoned and forgotten in Akkaba. Suddenly the reality has changed drastically, without anybody realizing. What happened and who is the responsible? Can the X-Men stop and reassert the timeline in its path?
Notes: You are getting me blushing, folks. Thank very much for the reviews. Keep on writing them, they are my drive. By the way: this is NOT AU. If you want a hint of the changes read again the first chapter of Ages Of Apocalypse. What had happened to the people?
This part is dedicated to who think Marvel spoiled badly the things with Rogue and Gambit.
Continuity: Comic.
Disclaimer: X-Men belong to Marvel due to some sort of cosmic disaster. And writing nonsense disclaimers to disown stuff that all know aren't yours is boring.
Feedback: To jorgisimox@hotmail.com. I can't stress enough how badly I need advice and supports. English isn't my primary language, so excuse my mistakes.
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Part Three-
Massive chandeliers crafted of bejeweled beads of glass dangled quietly from the high dome of the private pavilion, spreading the dazzling light of their lamps everywhere. Iridescent light beams titillated and danced on the walls. Chords of classic music were played on the background, assembling a vibrant and colorful melody. Expensive paintings hung among the columns and arcs of the walls, with portraits whose faces seemed watching silently the gathering of people. Individuals and items danced carelessly, nibbling the food of the tables with merry voracity or chattering in mellow conversations, deliberately indefinite and trivial. Every of them were doing an extra effort that night to be tactful, polite and uncommitted.
The splendid ball held in that building was strictly private. Of course no one aware of the attendants would THINK even about trespass the threshold. The unlucky soul would be awfully slaughtered in matter of minutes of very painful ways, and nobody would find ever the corpse. And no policeman, brave and righteous or coward and corrupt, would dare to investigate the disappearance. Nobody messed in New Orleans with Guild business.
Even though the treaty of peace had finished up, theoretically at least, with the war between Thieves and Assassins, it had established a protocol to smooth out the conflicts and guarantee the peace. And albeit both sides were delightfully satisfied of avoiding mutually for the most part of the time, there were periodical reunions established to ease tensions. Or release them.
Right now the members of the New Orleans underground were drawn in observing the greeting between the Guildmaster of the Thieves and his wife with the Guildmaster of the Assassins. Such moments used to be always the highlight of the reunions.
The blonde and aloof woman was the absolute ruler of the Assassins shook hands with the brown-haired, charming Leader of Thieves, who led at her an alluring, winning smile that she reciprocated. Straight after she turned to his wife with a tight expression tried in vain to conceal her surly displeasure. They shook their hands, glove grazing skin.
"Well, Marie" She voiced soothingly. "You seem even younger than the last time we had the pleasure of conversing."
"Thanks very much, Belladonna" Rogue answered, really trying not sounding tart. She wasn't succeeding. "On the other hand you don't... I mean you seem so young and beautiful like always." She mumbled hurriedly, trying cover up her barb.
A muffled snicker rippled along the crowd.
Gambit rolled up his black-on-red eyes. He often wondered to himself why he allowed his wife his and ex-wife coincided in the same room, when they barely coexisted in the same planet. Idly Remy laid his red eyes on the fresco painted on the vault, a luminous and colorful Heaven's landscape with grim archangels flanking to God, and young and smiling cherubs and seraphs dancing amidst the clouds, rotating around of him. Gambit observed approvingly that the artist had managed somehow give to God a stern and ominous countenance at the same time as tender and caring eyes. He locked stares with the Almighty's depiction and asked mentally -or rather he implored- whether he would survive today or not.
Meanwhile a war of wills was being waged.
"You and your husband seem get an excellent health state. Tell me, Rogue, is he so good in the bed as I recall?"
Rogue raised infinitesimally one slender maroon brow. "I don't know, Belle. Are you so good as I remember?"
"EXCUSE ME?"
"Oh, don't let my words get you upset. It is the simplicity itself. The first time I absorbed him I stole all his memories, including his relationship with you, with all it implies. So I've virtually fucked you."
Belladonna shot a heated, burning glare capable of melting metal and drilling holes through titanium layers. Rogue didn't let it impressed her or bothered her. She knew a man who could pierce mountains or pulverize adamantium with one leer. And a woman capable of slicing a strut with beams of solid light.
"And do you know the best part?" She pressed, on behalf of being obnoxious. A part of her pleaded her stop there and then, but Rogue stomped it firmly. She was enjoying hugely being petty and mean; and only for once she wanted give free rein to her naughty and bitchy inward child. "When he was screwing you, he tuned in your emotions with his empathy to know what it was like from your side, so I know also what you felt when you reached the climax. And my, I was burning and blistering with seething jealous. Therefore I snatched to Remy, dragged him to our king-sized bed and didn't stop until I had squeezed and wrung every drop of sperm out of him."
The smirk of Rogue was positively gloating and spiteful, retaliating with it the bristling, baleful leer Belladonna was hurling her. Inwardly she was bubbling in delight. Belladonna was often so uptight and stuck-up was very funny get her angry. Unhealthy and hardly recommendable, but funny nonetheless. If the mindless suicidal who provoked her survived to the feat, of course.
On the other hand Gambit wasn't finding the exchange so amusing. No amusing at all. The Cajun thief whimpered, bringing his hands to his head and covering it. Yes, he was slated to die there and today.
*********************************************************************************
INTERLUDE
Poor Polaris.
Poor, maddened, altered thing. Tossed around for the events; warped, screwed and twisted beyond of the repair; used, abused and discarded hundreds of times as a dirty and tattered rag doll. She had been raped in mind and body, brainwashed and mindwiped by madmen to their schemes of domination or plots of genocide. Her self had been exploited and vexed until she knew no longer who or what she was, until her sanity gave in once and for all. Lorna Dane had been damaged in body, mind and soul, squeezed out until give all she had, until there was no more left to give.
And there wasn't turn back.
Or maybe yes.
She was a writhing heap on the floor when was found. In certain sense she reminded of Ophelia: as ill minded as ill-minded looked Hamlet, teetering on the verge of a cliff until she plunged to her death on the river flowing below. Like the heroine of the Shakespearean tragedy, the death had to be a release of the life to Lorna.
And in other sense, kidnap to that woman and lock her away was doing a good and merciful deed.
*********************************************************************************
In the fourth part another pair reflects about what could have been withouth knowing it was; and in the interlude the plot thickens and advances its next step towards the climax.
The Ascensión of The Twelve: Second Gathering
Author: Jenskott
Summary: After of the Gathering of The Twelve the machine and the technology of Apocalypse was abandoned and forgotten in Akkaba. Suddenly the reality has changed drastically, without anybody realizing. What happened and who is the responsible? Can the X-Men stop and reassert the timeline in its path?
Notes: You are getting me blushing, folks. Thank very much for the reviews. Keep on writing them, they are my drive. By the way: this is NOT AU. If you want a hint of the changes read again the first chapter of Ages Of Apocalypse. What had happened to the people?
This part is dedicated to who think Marvel spoiled badly the things with Rogue and Gambit.
Continuity: Comic.
Disclaimer: X-Men belong to Marvel due to some sort of cosmic disaster. And writing nonsense disclaimers to disown stuff that all know aren't yours is boring.
Feedback: To jorgisimox@hotmail.com. I can't stress enough how badly I need advice and supports. English isn't my primary language, so excuse my mistakes.
*********************************************************************************
Part Three-
Massive chandeliers crafted of bejeweled beads of glass dangled quietly from the high dome of the private pavilion, spreading the dazzling light of their lamps everywhere. Iridescent light beams titillated and danced on the walls. Chords of classic music were played on the background, assembling a vibrant and colorful melody. Expensive paintings hung among the columns and arcs of the walls, with portraits whose faces seemed watching silently the gathering of people. Individuals and items danced carelessly, nibbling the food of the tables with merry voracity or chattering in mellow conversations, deliberately indefinite and trivial. Every of them were doing an extra effort that night to be tactful, polite and uncommitted.
The splendid ball held in that building was strictly private. Of course no one aware of the attendants would THINK even about trespass the threshold. The unlucky soul would be awfully slaughtered in matter of minutes of very painful ways, and nobody would find ever the corpse. And no policeman, brave and righteous or coward and corrupt, would dare to investigate the disappearance. Nobody messed in New Orleans with Guild business.
Even though the treaty of peace had finished up, theoretically at least, with the war between Thieves and Assassins, it had established a protocol to smooth out the conflicts and guarantee the peace. And albeit both sides were delightfully satisfied of avoiding mutually for the most part of the time, there were periodical reunions established to ease tensions. Or release them.
Right now the members of the New Orleans underground were drawn in observing the greeting between the Guildmaster of the Thieves and his wife with the Guildmaster of the Assassins. Such moments used to be always the highlight of the reunions.
The blonde and aloof woman was the absolute ruler of the Assassins shook hands with the brown-haired, charming Leader of Thieves, who led at her an alluring, winning smile that she reciprocated. Straight after she turned to his wife with a tight expression tried in vain to conceal her surly displeasure. They shook their hands, glove grazing skin.
"Well, Marie" She voiced soothingly. "You seem even younger than the last time we had the pleasure of conversing."
"Thanks very much, Belladonna" Rogue answered, really trying not sounding tart. She wasn't succeeding. "On the other hand you don't... I mean you seem so young and beautiful like always." She mumbled hurriedly, trying cover up her barb.
A muffled snicker rippled along the crowd.
Gambit rolled up his black-on-red eyes. He often wondered to himself why he allowed his wife his and ex-wife coincided in the same room, when they barely coexisted in the same planet. Idly Remy laid his red eyes on the fresco painted on the vault, a luminous and colorful Heaven's landscape with grim archangels flanking to God, and young and smiling cherubs and seraphs dancing amidst the clouds, rotating around of him. Gambit observed approvingly that the artist had managed somehow give to God a stern and ominous countenance at the same time as tender and caring eyes. He locked stares with the Almighty's depiction and asked mentally -or rather he implored- whether he would survive today or not.
Meanwhile a war of wills was being waged.
"You and your husband seem get an excellent health state. Tell me, Rogue, is he so good in the bed as I recall?"
Rogue raised infinitesimally one slender maroon brow. "I don't know, Belle. Are you so good as I remember?"
"EXCUSE ME?"
"Oh, don't let my words get you upset. It is the simplicity itself. The first time I absorbed him I stole all his memories, including his relationship with you, with all it implies. So I've virtually fucked you."
Belladonna shot a heated, burning glare capable of melting metal and drilling holes through titanium layers. Rogue didn't let it impressed her or bothered her. She knew a man who could pierce mountains or pulverize adamantium with one leer. And a woman capable of slicing a strut with beams of solid light.
"And do you know the best part?" She pressed, on behalf of being obnoxious. A part of her pleaded her stop there and then, but Rogue stomped it firmly. She was enjoying hugely being petty and mean; and only for once she wanted give free rein to her naughty and bitchy inward child. "When he was screwing you, he tuned in your emotions with his empathy to know what it was like from your side, so I know also what you felt when you reached the climax. And my, I was burning and blistering with seething jealous. Therefore I snatched to Remy, dragged him to our king-sized bed and didn't stop until I had squeezed and wrung every drop of sperm out of him."
The smirk of Rogue was positively gloating and spiteful, retaliating with it the bristling, baleful leer Belladonna was hurling her. Inwardly she was bubbling in delight. Belladonna was often so uptight and stuck-up was very funny get her angry. Unhealthy and hardly recommendable, but funny nonetheless. If the mindless suicidal who provoked her survived to the feat, of course.
On the other hand Gambit wasn't finding the exchange so amusing. No amusing at all. The Cajun thief whimpered, bringing his hands to his head and covering it. Yes, he was slated to die there and today.
*********************************************************************************
INTERLUDE
Poor Polaris.
Poor, maddened, altered thing. Tossed around for the events; warped, screwed and twisted beyond of the repair; used, abused and discarded hundreds of times as a dirty and tattered rag doll. She had been raped in mind and body, brainwashed and mindwiped by madmen to their schemes of domination or plots of genocide. Her self had been exploited and vexed until she knew no longer who or what she was, until her sanity gave in once and for all. Lorna Dane had been damaged in body, mind and soul, squeezed out until give all she had, until there was no more left to give.
And there wasn't turn back.
Or maybe yes.
She was a writhing heap on the floor when was found. In certain sense she reminded of Ophelia: as ill minded as ill-minded looked Hamlet, teetering on the verge of a cliff until she plunged to her death on the river flowing below. Like the heroine of the Shakespearean tragedy, the death had to be a release of the life to Lorna.
And in other sense, kidnap to that woman and lock her away was doing a good and merciful deed.
*********************************************************************************
In the fourth part another pair reflects about what could have been withouth knowing it was; and in the interlude the plot thickens and advances its next step towards the climax.