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Age Of Apocalypse: Shifting Times
Author: Jenskott
Summary: What if had Weapon-X not rescued to Jean Grey out of the pens?
Notes: Here I explain why Betsy owns the Kwannon's body. It's based on the rules about AOA characters and my own idea: Tony Stark never became IronMan. Hence nobody stood up to The Mandarin. By the way: Fasten your belts up! The Armageddon begins here!
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: Sadly they belong to Marvel Comics.
Feedback: To jorgisimox@hotmail.com. Very cherished and appreciated and beloved. However English isn't my native language, therefore forgive my very obvious mistakes. Still I'll thank polite advice.
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Part Three. Plans and Conspiracies-
A cloak of bright red bleached the sky in broad daylight as an evil paint made of blood over a vast canvas. The sunrays pierced the layers of oily clouds of smog and pollution. They lightened up the red blanket and cast a crimson and glittery glow on her pale skin.
London wasn't quite like she remembered it.
Elisabeth Braddock disregarded her sad and mournful reverie, hiding the heartbreak had sprung from her homesickness, from her longing for matching her wistful memories with the harsh reality. It was a throbbing ache, a grief gripping her heart and flaying her soul deep down, but she wasn't allowed show it right now. All in all, she needed her most professional demeanor to the clash of wills was starting.
"Betsy, meet with the Trasks" Logan introduced her "The most resentful item of the Council. It's been a while, Moira."
"No quite, Logan." The Scottish scientific spat, her already sourly mood bitterer with the harsh and mean treatment, very accurate on the other hand.
When Logan and she reached Bristol's seaport received promptly a warm welcome of the first group of thugs they ran into. After of the subsequent and brief scuffle, took little effort and less threats of intense and prolonged agony to convince to the would-be bullies of lead them to the Council HQ. Unfortunately the reception in there was even warmer and more heartfelt than in the decks. Yes, she was being petty and sarcastic. It was too obvious?
And right there they were now. Within a massive domed chamber illuminated with the light filtered the stained glass of the exaggerated skylight, and facing the Human Council. The remainder members, clad in their tight yellow suits, were granting them hostile and distrustful peers, but no as bitter as Moira. Or that well-built and handsome blonde man for that matter. That man so painfully familiar to her.
Bolivar and Moira Trask, the Sentinel makers; Emma Frost, former White Queen of the Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club, before that shadow government was obliterated by Apocalypse, Shaw became one of the Madri's lapdogs, and Donald Pierce was twisted in a repugnant blend of circuitry; Mariko Yoshida, sister of Sunfire, the last hero of a country wiped off the planet; ex-General Thunderbolt Ross, high command of an army no longer existed; and Brian Braddock.
She curled her lip and bit it. Her teeth drew blood, but it didn't matter. That stinging, cutting pain was meant to dull another deepest ache, tearing inside her. Still she forced to herself to sport a good-natured, optimistic mask of joy and confidence on her countenance while Logan finished the introductions.
She perused with measuring attention to each member of the Council, trying assessing their natures and tempers, knowing their strengths and weaknesses, guessing possible leverages and wholly intending analyzing them to find out blackmail methods if it was needed. She scrutinized them with the eyes of her face and her mind, probing for useful knowledge, when she found a hardened barrier of resistance. She felt the softest feather-like stroke of a telepath brushing against other telepath, smooth and menacing. Electricity sparked between her purple eyes and the cold blue irises of Frost. The lobotomized psychic shot her a cursory, narrowed glare, but said nothing. However Betsy read her knowing expression of respect and defiance.
Their blades had parried for first time.
Keeping carefully her mask of naive and innocent unconcern, she glanced away to the lean and short Asian woman. She was hurling stealth peeps at Logan, and Betsy read sparks of something. There was an underlying attraction, a desire nearly subconscious in her. Interesting. Filing that information to later use, she strode forward. She had been entrusted with an obligation to carry out. A message to deliver.
She approached to Mariko and bowed with painstaking, respectful protocol. "Good morning, Lady Mariko. Your cousin Shiro wishes send his best and fondest regards."
The petite woman gasped. "Do you... know to my brother?"
"Yes, I do indeed." She took delicately her hand and closed her eyes. A purple blaze flared in her forehead.
A river of images flowed in Mariko's mind. Ravenous flames swallowing Japan, with rows of Infinites advancing over charred corpses and annihilated cities. Sunfire unleashing the atomic fire throbbing in him and incinerating hundred of soldiers. Holocaust beating him after of a terrible battle. The awful Apocalypse's visage while his claw clamped around his face and scarred it, shortly before of sinking him in the blood pool where he swam. The salty taste of the thick fluid while he drowned, impregnating his body forever with the stench and staining his skin with the blood the murderers had spilled between laughs.
The awakening to the nightmare of the failure to his country and family, to the shame of keeping alive and without honor. The jail. The repugnant genetic experiments in The Moon. The final freedom thanks to the X-Men. The ruthless and eternal fight against Apocalypse, searching regaining the lost honor and saving millions of lives of other massacres. And the last message to his cousin, the last member left of his family, since he didn't expect really survive.
"Farewell, Mariko. Take care of yourself. And I wish Emma-O*, the Judge of the Dead, sends us to a place better than this world, where we can meet without any regrets to what could have been and wasn't."
She blinked, and suddenly she was again in the HQ, with the members of the Council. The message had finished.
Wetness moistened her eyes and cheeks. Tears. She realized with shock she had been weeping. With a sad gesture, she wiped out the tears and wet trails with her sleeve and glanced to Psylocke. The woman sported a forlorn countenance matched the powerful sorrow and grief coloring her face.
The woman bowed. "Thanks very much, Miss Elisabeth. I'm truly thanked. By the way, forgive my curiosity, but are you Japanese like myself?" She queried, scolding mercilessly in her mind for her indiscretion. However she hadn't seen any compatriot long ago, and her feelings of loneliness and exclusion were very strong and intense. And that woman not only seemed Asian, but also was dressed with a ninja garb, and blended a Japanese accent in her perfect English language.
"Forgive me, Lady Yoshida, but I'm afraid I'm not Japanese, or Asian for that matter. I'm quite English, born in the family Braddock" She tilted her head at Brian, fluttering her eyelashes in a mocking, infuriating manner. "It's been a long while, Brian. How are you doing it, brother?" She chirped.
He crossed his arms and huffed, ticked off with the presumption of that woman. "I don't know what are you trying pulling here, miss, but my sister was born in England, and is English such like myself. You DON'T seem exactly British."
"Long history" Betsy glowered. "Let's tell 'Perilous Siege' and leave it in it. Besides, I can prove beyond any doubt I'm Elisabeth Braddock."
"Seriously? How?"
"Crab. Underpants. Girlish scream. Sounds it familiar?" Brian cringed. "So I thought."
Logan blinked. "Did you place a crab in his boxers?" He stuttered.
A bored shrug. "Yes, but it was fair pay back. He burst a water balloon on my white blouse in the school only because I fed to the dog with his homework. Fair revenge for the banana peel on the stairs."
The entire Council stared at Braddock. Their amazement grew even more when they saw his flushing face. He squirmed uncomfortably, meeting extremely uneasy under the scrutiny of those gaping, bewildered and even bemused expressions. That woman had managed simple-handily embarrass him publicly. Only one person in the whole planet could accomplish that feat, and it only should confirm the claims of that person.
Determined to regain the upper hand in that argument, Brian snorted contemptuously and lifted up his chin, giving a haughty glance to the X-Woman. "It doesn't prove anything at all, woman. A telepath as yourself may easily read those memories in someone else's mind. But I relent; perhaps you are Elisabeth Braddock. But even if you are she, you aren't my sister. No longer. I'm no relative of any filthy mutant-"
A whip-like swish sounded, slicing the air.
A muffled and sickening crunch followed after.
The booming and swift slap echoed across the dome.
He hadn't got to end the sentence. His head reeled sideways, and he felt his cheek burning. Perhaps she had broken some bone. Such vicious rage clashed wrong with his erstwhile tranquil and demure sister.
"How do you dare, Brian?" She roared with venomous fury seeping in her voice. One of her hands grabbed a fistful of his shirt and other closed around of his neck. She lifted him with little effort, displaying an awesome and unexpected strength. "Have you forgotten who saved you when our elder brother went nuts? Have you forgotten whose temple was scratched with a bullet was headed at you? Have you forgotten who crumbled Jamie's mind in smithereens to save your life? And have you forgotten ever where our father was born? Where did he come from? Would you mind terribly if I comment it to the Council?"
"That is..." He wheezed "Fool and absurd gossip. Meaningless rumors with no fundament. I'm surprised you truly believe something of that rubbish."
His sister let go abruptly his hold, letting him drop on the floor. His rear plopped down with noise and stirring dust clouds, and he stayed quiet down there, gasping eagerly for air. His hand rubbed slowly his sore neck, reddened with claw-like marks.
"Please!" Betsy drawled, wiggling her forefinger in a singsong, scornful manner. "Not even you believe in your own words, brother. Before of lying to someone try and sound minimally convinced of your own speech."
Logan -and the remainder Councilors- witnessed the bizarre exchange with dumbfounded and genuinely intrigued stares. What do you mean with that, Psylocke? Weapon-X asked mentally, knowing he sounded a tad too curious and prying, but unable of acting otherwise.
She turned at him and winked. Let's say, Logan, I haven't a big trouble believing the Bishop's words. No knowing the things I know
Outside of the dome far above of the buildings and the Big Ben with the clock shattered, a icy and brisk wind whistled and hissed, and clouds rolled along the sky with it. A tempest was brewing. Slowly.
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Jean Grey typed letters and digits frenziedly on the screen of the computer she was facing. Swift fingers rushed on the keyboard while her focus was intensely drawn in the monitor. The soft radiance reflected on her green irises and the tedious beeping were definitively dull, but nothing might take her concentration away this.
Use the computer to look over and snoop about the system and the files was chancy, but no compromising while she kept to herself within the boundaries of her clearance. And a prelate's clearance -she spat spitefully every time she thought that loathsome title was linked to her name- opened many doors. No all, however. And she'd need to wade in dangerous waters to find the information she required.
Sometimes when she checked over the computer mainframe marveled examining and studying the complexity and sheer craftsmanship of the system. This technology was unlike of anything else existent on the Earth. Only in Wundagore she had found machinery in a comparable development stage, and it was light years from this. Apocalypse had used those tools to pounce on a clueless planet, and conquering it. She ignored where came the machines from, but Scott had mentioned something about alien origin once. She supposed it made as much sense as anything else did.
In those moments she couldn't help think about Kate. Yes, she had wished many times the girl could get her grabby hands on these computers, or at least steal something. She was an intelligent and creative woman, with an uncanny knack to the computer science, overzealous and eager of learning of it. Unfortunately the technology was strictly limited to the upper commands of the Throne, and outright forbidden to humans. Still Shadowcat was very creative, and with the little equipment Magneto lend her, she could fix any mess. She was a hacker far better than her, and could spy in the private files smoothly and unnoticed without every the difficulties and trials she ran into constantly.
Jean bit her lip, observing the lock banning her from the war plans. Her hand stroked her chin in deep reflection while she thought some way to crack the shell and download the files. The core of the trouble was giving her a throbbing headache, a very bad thing to a telepath. She could find the way of retrieving the information, cover her tracks and beat a hasty retreat, and even discover the cryptographic code to decipher it and record it. But and afterwards? Still she had to figure out how those data would make some good. How might they send them to the resistance safely?
She was sat down, with the hand cupping her chin in contemplative stance, perusing the renegade computer, when the creak of a door opening echoed behind her.
Jean whirled on her chair to face the newcomer, her partner since years ago. It was interesting and telltale notice the change produced on him when Scott was left alone, was closed in his flat, or was in some place where he felt sure and trusty. His shoulders slumped, his head downcast, his tired pace and his stance grief-stricken and beaten were things his subordinates would never see. No in several lifetimes.
By some reason she wasn't willing analyze, was flatterer he decided she was worth of his confidence and trust. She felt glad and pleased thinking he believed in her enough to let down the masks set to his self-protection.
"What has happened today?" She asked solicitously, raising a concerned brow at his thoroughly gloomy expression. She disregarded query 'How was your day?' or 'How are you feeling?' always because except for odd and seldom exceptions, the answer was the same day after day.
But his negative feelings were particularly pernicious and foul right now. Ripples of darkness with purple highlights, progressively becoming ebony pitch-black with a tinge of red. Something was poisoning him from within. She had become very familiar with his little gestures and grimaces and knew he was simmering with fury and scorn led to himself. And today he was really glum and sourly.
She shut down her laptop and sauntered with calculated serenity towards him.
Tough day in the job, uh?
Is it so obvious?
When they were parted no more than two steps, the doors snapped shut, curtains were suddenly drawn and blinds went down, and lights switched off at their own volition. The room was plunged in darkness, thick and impermeable shadows shrouding them.
Both of them were sure of Havok, Chief of Security after all, had scattered gadgets such like mikes and cameras about the entire Tower. Thus they had set up in the rooms of Scott electronic devices detected the wavelengths, scrambling them and disrupting them. However they couldn't be too much careful. Couldn't be allowed any interaction between them was recorded, and the jeopardizing and compromising talks were made telepathically.
Jean felt a weird sensation when she forged a permanent path linking their minds together and allowing to theirs thoughts flow and travel up and down it. She regretted with remorseful guilt having established a mindlink with another man, and regretted with rueful chagrin it felt so nice. Good. Right. Oh no, she hadn't said that. Still it was the only way to keep in permanent check at each other, and to avoid malicious eavesdroppers. So she had opened a bond between their brains, a link couldn't be broken, shielded from other telepaths. And she has grudgingly to admit it liked her. Share her thoughts with that man, feel and see and touch his darkness, bask in his light and nurture it with her own... It was exhilarating.
He started to mind-speak with that reposed, vibrant voice of his There was a fleeing. We chased them. My impulsive and hotheaded brother threw a tantrum and killed to several, including one who I was trying submit. Later I had deal with those brats of Guthrie and his sister, eager of being a prelate only for boasting and tyrannize to someone else. Have I added I was putting up with Beast afterwards?
She kept quiet and still, hearing mentally his stark descriptions, and sensing the bare force of his emotions leaking at her. Grief, despair, sorrow, bitterness, self-loathing. All tainting his mind and his anguished thoughts with a murky hue. It was nearly overwhelming, but she had got used to it.
The redhead telepath hugged him, enclosing his upper body with her arms. A gesture of closeness, of comfort, of relief. It was the most tender display of affection she -both- dared to use with each other. And it felt nice. Good. Even right. Like her or not, and the guilt was eating her many times, his arms felt to her a shelter in the darkness. In that piece of the Hades where she lived he was an island, a solid ground where put her feet. Lose it would be equivalent to lose her footing and be carried away. He was someone stable and reliable, her bulwark, her rock, her anchor.
Jean sent happy, optimistic thoughts towards him. Fire to melt the ice, light to flare in the darkness, warmth to ease his tears. Following her purpose of getting him relaxed, her hands lingered softly on the golden shoulder straps of the body suit, before of unfastening the clasps and detaching them off the body. The twin pieces dropped down with a low clinking. And she began to open the rest of the armor.
Holy God, Jean He whispered, invoking an entity which he no longer believed in, a deity had forsaken and forgotten to its own sons Who am I trying kidding? I'm trying releasing prisoners on one hand, and on the other I prevent escapes. People has dead today because I couldn't impede my brother and some cocky prelates went over their heads again. I'm such fucking mess
You're doing what you can for helping, Scott She mused You've already done much for the prisoners, giving them a chance. You've shown concern for them, and it is pretty more than nobody have given them here by far Jean frowned, pondering about that hell-bound pit. She hated with everlasting passion that den of devils, and prayed for they fled sooner or later. Together and alive.
Meanwhile the last segment of metallic protection rebounded on the carpet. She was extremely aware of his close body, the warm flowing from him, the enthralling glow of his red visor on the darkness, the way the thin fabric clung to his skin, the tact of the bothersome kevlar between her fingers and his broad chest. Even submerged in bowels of blackness she could sense the soft heaves and lowers of the thorax and make out the shape, form and outline of his body and ogle to the ripples of his muscles under the skin, as waves on the liquid water.
Unbidden, forbidden thoughts crept in her mind. She shook her head to banish them, being careful of blocking them, and forced her head alongside other thought line.
I've been trying unlocking the files but there hasn't been luck so far. No mention I'm not sure of what doing of them She reported, summoning her most professional demeanor Have you found out anything worth today, Scott?
He sighed, and Jean felt the inner weariness and despair this endless and endlessly stupid conflict was giving him. It was wearing him down, rendering him fed up and depressed. His earlier outburst just mirrored the exhaustion he was basking in. His desperate hopes in making a difference to some people, his doubts regarding his capability and worth, and his fears about his own uselessness at the end.
Magneto is up to something. Yet when isn't he? Seemingly the Gambit's group and him broke into a top-secret underground room and kicked up a racket in it before vanishing. Meanwhile Nightcrawler has departed towards Avalon, with three Pale Riders and the Shadow King on his trail. That bodiless freak warned though of someone surfing psychically in the files of Core Portland. And I'd wager it's related
And the remainder X-Men?
Out to hinder or spoil the culls in Indiana and Maine. Oh, and Sinister remains cut off still. I'm sure he's disappeared without a trace for now, and is plotting some scheme against Apocalypse, but I ignore what can be in his mind. Like always His arms raised and threaded along his long strands of brown hair.
Jean's heart had fluttered, only for a moment. She thought he was going to embrace her back. Noticing it, the woman chastised to herself.
My instincts are screaming at me every those incidents are factors add on and are part of the great picture. Something is happening. I can say it. Something very big and awesome. I can see the storm brewing in the horizon, ready to blow up. I can feel it. And we're in danger of it blowing up us in smithereens
He sighed again, staring fixedly at her. Jean knew the tender, troubled glance he was giving her, even with the damned visor in the way, and she felt his concern and anxiety and fright streaming towards her as a flood. He was truthfully and appallingly worried for her, sick with the dread of her trapped in the middle of the tempest his senses foretold.
Perhaps would be better you fly off now, Jean. We are for a long ride. But you have other places where you can go to and hide or live
She denied with her head. No. I promised you I'd stay with you, and I honor my promises. I'm sticking with you for the better and the worse, till the death if it is what is waiting for us at the end
She stated seriously, locking stares with him to show she was serious. A tiny part of her mind wondered why those words had come to her tongue so easily. She remembered have them heard as part of a speech when she was a child, but wasn't sure of recalling the meaning.
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Elisabeth Guthrie nursed carefully her arm, still feeling the remaining tingle of the hot tissue scar. His fingers grazed slightly the spot, a patch of skin of a clearer shade, and lingered on it. She retreated at once the hand, wincing with the itching of the blister.
With a resentful huff she tossed backwards her ponytail, a gesture of cool contempt wasn't so convincing in its indifference as she'd like. The little blonde bitch was vicious with her plasma bombs, she bristled. During the intended outbreak, humans and renegade mutants had collaborated together to escape, something unbelievable by any reckoning. She was unprepared when that lass of blonde curls -roughly the Sam's age- had unleashed a barrage of projectiles of energy on her. The rain of fire burst along her mass singing and searing her skin, and eliciting howls out of her throat. Despite of her size, she recoiled in defeat, and the things could have got ugly if Sam hadn't cracked the jaw of that little witch.
"It hurts a lot yet, sister?" Sam asked with a crooked grin on his lips. He remained sit down next to her, with his legs tapping idly the floor of the lab. She groaned. Of course he was invulnerable and remained untouched and unharmed when one golden-furred animal of the cages -Feral was her name she thought- attacked him with her claws.
"Yes" She scoffed with little sympathy. He could be her last blood brother, but so was Paige, and either of the soldiers on the Tower would slit their mothers' throat if it earned a promotion. "The bit irks me the most is Summers lectured later on!"
Samuel Guthrie snarled. "So little as like admit it, he had a point. We let prisoners escape during our shift so he telling us off was to be expected." His eyes squinted and his expression turned very, very dark. "Yet no one talks me as that. I'm sick of that sanctimonious bastard and his loads of crap."
"I agree." Her sister nodded. They continued their baleful and resentful conversation when the voices sounding across the lab raised in volume, drawing their attentions. Behind of the metallic door, opened and left ajar, two distinct voices were filtering to the rest of the quarters.
"What will be Summers talking about with McCoy?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. But knowing to Havok he must be bargaining his support to get rid of Summers and get the command."
Elisabeth sneered wickedly. "It wouldn't be sad. If the Chief of Security comes by and asks my help, I'm giving it for free."
Cannonball wiped some stray bangs away his square forehead, and stared down at his little sister. "Don't be silly, Betts. You would give it for nothing. If he wants us, he will must give us something in return."
While the Guthrie siblings argued, Alex Summers was busy glancing with a mixture of scorn and sickness to the gruesome form of McCoy, hunched over one table. It wasn't a sight he enjoyed specially, but it beat the alternative: look around of the chamber of tortures he jokingly labeled 'lab room'.
From the high ceiling hang nondescript persons, duly shackled and gagged, writhing or shaking with frenetic, compulsory motions. Likely they were staring down, on the several stretchers where were laid corpses drugged, maimed, dissected or with their bellies sliced open in order to see, catalogue and poke their innards. There weren't spare body pieces at any surface, though. Blots of coagulated blood caking the sheets and chunks of flesh or shards of bone were found everywhere, but the big organic rests and valuable 'specimens' were dipped on the genetic soup Beast stored in the massive pots and tubes where he concocted his failures and successes in genetic engineering.
Even with the hardened training and the little regard towards someone else's lives Alex possessed and gloated about, that cold lab and his fetid stench had pernicious effects to his stomach permanently.
McCoy had mocked of his displays of revolting repugnance when he sank several mutants on his viscous tube, but he was convinced of science had nothing to see with the way Beast skinned and dissected bodies. He was a natural sadistic to put it simple. It wasn't he minded him, of course. If McCoy supported him, Alex couldn't care him less how many useless wastes of DNA he butchered on a daily basis.
"How was telling, McCoy" He uttered, not watching the next human bodies being liquefied on the bubbling liquid, and dissolving in that blend of proteins "My brother seems worried: His reflexes are dulled, his decisions are arguable. Like scientific, you know the change is inevitable."
It was short and ambiguous, but the underlying meaning was clear and unmistakable. Hank McCoy took off slowly his orange lenses, and stared straight at Havok.
The Prelate suffered inner tremors each time he gazed upon that beast-like face. It upset him; its long and glinting fangs jutting out of his wide maw of thick lips, its blank eyes of pale yellow color, and its unruffled strands of grey fur cascading around his face and darkening it as a cowl.
"Hypothetically speaking, I shall support to whoever allows me to pursue my investigation" His thick brows frowned with a scowl, giving to his inhuman face a most sinister looking. "And you should keep in mind Sinister esteems greatly to your brother. He won't agree gleefully a fratricide."
Alex waved one hand derisively. "That is of no consequence."
McCoy scoffed, looking back to his control pad. The tank was laden with aminoacids and they needed his careful attention to evolve. "If that's all, Prelate..."
"It's. Good-bye, McCoy." Alex spun around and dashed off, away that place. The reek of the blood and the death was beginning to adhere to his clothes and hair, and the chemicals hurt his nostrils. He had better places where getting a good time than in the Beast's lair, but before of visiting Heaven a perfumed bath was in order.
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Starlight radiance was converted in heated plasma and channeled towards one hand. Power coursed up the arm, gathering among the fingers in pulsating ripples of incredibly hot energy.
"Watch your mouth, Aaronson" Havok growled, clenching his fist. Energy crackled on it. "If you insinuate I'm mating with a flatscan, you have better be ready to defend to yourself."
The lanky black man crouched slightly, preparing only in case. Alex was infamous by his uncontrollable outbursts of fury. The larger of the two brothers stepped in the middle, trying placating to Alex.
Scott snorted. Behind of his shades he was studying the erratic loops of a gnat fluttered aimlessly on the filthy air. It turned out to be one most interesting experience than that pathetic show, he decided.
Jean, who stood by behind him, sneered disdainfully at the scene with just the same spite. Her mesmerizing eyes rolled up, locked in one passing cloud of smog. Can you smell the testosterone floating on the air? She sent telepathically. The sourly and scornful countenance at her face was belied by the humorous ring of that witticism.
Don't kidding He answered briskly I'm yearning for grabbing his lapels and tell him only for the shock value that the Aaronsons know, the Guthries know, the Bedlams know, you know, I know, Sinister knows... Crap, I suspect even Apocalypse knows
And why don't you do?
What purpose would serve it? Give him a seizure aside, of course He rebuked. Scott coughed meaningfully, earning everyone's attention. All whirled at him, and the Prelate looked over them with one of his grim, steeled expressions. The two brothers shifted uneasy and uncertain of what looking forward, and Alex plainly glanced at him.
"If you are done now, let's go." He ordered, and started his pace. Jean followed him closely, and the entire pack trailed behind them.
They marched steadily across bridges and staircases, surrounded by barren and sterile walls of metal, with tall domes of titanium or reinforced glass above and big pits below. The Tower not only grew skywards, but also had more sub-levels, basements and underground facilities than they knew. Jean sometimes stared down towards the abyss and saw the rooms and chambers winding down as a spiral staircase plunging in the darkness of the Earth core. In that place was where listen the cacophony of screams and wails of tortured prisoners was particularly appalling and horrific.
At the same time as they walked, started to be evident where they were leading at. Still, the three Prelates striding on the rearguard were nervous and curious of the Scott's behavior and the reason after it. But while Terry and Jesse Aaronson knew better that get relentless or prod to his chief, Alex was feeling impatient and ticked off. And he never practiced the philosophy of claming up his mouth and waiting to the proper time to speak aloud.
"Where are we going at, brother?" He growled. Scott didn't turn to answer.
"Oh, take a wild guess, Alex." Scott muttered with a sniggering mood unusual in him. The Prelate stopped of walking and looked ahead pointedly.
They had reached the foot of a tall flight of wide steps crawled towards two large gates of marble and titanium flanked for wide columns. Cables and wires slithered along the edges of the staircase to climb the wall or coil around the pillars, ascending as far as the ceiling, and invading the chamber through the door head. They were meant to deliver electricity and energy to the Sinister's experiments, but to the visitors reminded of a horde of groveling snakes.
Scott walked steps up, facing to the gate's keeper, a telepath's brain who gazed over all with a watchful eye. It was kept in a bead of glass mounted on a tripod and floating in a bubbling greenish liquid. He was used to it since long ago, but he knew Jean would never feel eased in front of that thing peering at them with a single eye left, attached to the encephalon through the nerve. Of course he was aware she was liable to have ended up in a coffin of glass with a remaining eye dangling in the liquid if he would haven't almost blasted to Dark Beast, so her fear was rather justified.
Oblivious to the all's astonishment, their gasps of amazement and the emotions of Jean –guilty glee amidst the sickness and repugnance- he demanded be allowed the entrance. Unsurprisingly the brain denied it.
Havok crossed his arms and gave him a quizzical look "What is the trouble, Scott? Sinister is a Horseman. He goes and comes around as he pleases him."
Jean craned her neck towards him and answered for Scott. "This is different, Havok. Sinister has shut off the communication. He doesn't answer since days ago."
Havok stiffened And of course you are the only who Scott considered fit of knowing that information. And now you are feeling very proud of tossing that piece of knowledge to us, poor mortals. Isn't it right, stuck-up, obnoxious slut? He balled that thought and hurled it mentally at Jean. She narrowed dangerously her eyes but didn't display further reaction.
Meanwhile Scott was shooting a glare at the guardian and fuming in disappointment. "Terry, I want you shut down to the guardian" He commanded.
"Are you sure, Scott?"
He nodded. "Do it. I assume the full responsibility."
Jean tilted her head towards him. "I can do it too if you want, Scott."
"No. The guardian would sense your telepathic attack and strike back. On the other hand Terry will disable it, disrupting its synapses and scrambling its thoughts. It is surer."
The Aaronson brother glanced nervously to his chief and leaned over the transparent sphere. He frowned in focusing, sending a rush of power. The guardian suddenly felt its mind turned upside down, and before being able of thinking in counterattack, it couldn't think at all. His rationality had collapsed and shattered, and he was lost, ignoring who was, what wanted, which were its orders. Or what meant the 'order' word.
Clicks and raspy noises, of metal scratching metal, echoed in the silence. The locks had been opened, allowing the entrance. It was practically beckoning them.
"Let's go" Scott stated, pushing the panel and disappearing in the inside. The rest kept up with him.
"Only for the record, I'm opposed to this breaking into the Sinister's private rooms" Alex muttered while he went into the wide chamber.
His eyes widened and he gaped. In the background he listened to Scott saying him some off-handed remark. He ignored it, his attention focused in other thing.
The room was fully wrecked.
Expensive equipment had been ripped off its hinges and torn in pieces scattered throughout the ground. Everywhere lay remnants and pieces of keyboards, monitors, computers, machines, lab stuff and several odd engines. Among the identifiable garbage was spread a cover of pebble-like shards of glass and metal, shrapnel of silicon and plastic, and frayed cords of wires. It looked like a hailstorm had rained over the place and carpeted the floor with its ammo. The entire wreckage was bathed with a coat of grey ashes, and the walls were stripped of the metal, with the bare granite blackened. Close inspection revealed the chunks of metal had liquefied and hardened again on the floor, making a rope-like thread bordered the ground. It was obvious a fire had charred the room, and the intense heat had melted the layers of metal armoring the walls.
The sharp gaze of Havok surveyed with an expression of stunned disbelief the room. Over one corner he found a camera dangling from a torn and tattered cord. Finally the wire broke and the device dropped down, the fall smashing it in bits.
The aloud crash snapped to Alex Summers out of his bafflement and frozen disbelief, and unknotted the lump in his throat.
"Who has been able do this? Magneto or one of his traitors?" He glanced pointedly at Jean.
She frowned at him with a sneering curl of her upper lip. "Why the hell are you staring at me, Summers?"
Scott interjected before Alex answered and the situation degenerated absurdly and quickly. "No, it was done by Sinister himself. Now make sense the things he said me. Sinister disagreed openly with Apocalypse, but..." Scott shook his head with abashed countenance "I never thought he would do this."
"You aren't serious!"
The Aaronson brothers exchanged a troubled, hesitant glance. "Fine. If Sinister has abandoned the place, who is in charge?"
"Scott was the Sinister's right-arm. No one knows the pens better than him."
Terry paused, staring silently at his leader, looking forward to his answer. When nothing came, he prodded with a mixture of expectation and wariness. "Scott?"
Cyclops lowered the head with a grim-looking visage. "All right. I'm in charge."
Havok felt burning with hot-melting, uncontrolled rage. His piercing blue eyes narrowed in gleaming slits, and he bore his pupils in Scott with a sideways glare. No if I have anything said on this matter, brother
Abruptly something stepped among his eyes and Scott. Jean Grey glared him back, combing backwards her red hair with one hand, and glowering with acid scorn.
He leered to her balefully. For the last years every time he plotted something against Scott she was always in the middle. Ever since that day when he had accused to Scott and she saved his neck (he wasn't at all convinced of the excuse she spouted, and failed in understanding why Sinister had bought that), Jean Grey had made into a sort of stronghold around of Scott, getting around along with him, following him as his trusty shadow, and protecting him of harm. Any try of his to undermine his brother's authority or rid from him had bumped into her. It crashed perpetually against the seamless shield was Jean Grey.
Other added reason to crush her at the first chance he had, Alex reflected. He had disliked her from first, and he obtained an excuse to increase his hatred when she proclaimed to herself Scott's protector. He would humiliate and get on her knees when all was said and done. She'd weep in pleads, beseeching for his life, and he'd roast her then. Or perhaps he would taste her first before killing her...
Suddenly, a rumbling thunder split the sky outside. Everyone whirled quickly at the direction the booming explosion had shattered the virtual nightly silence.
"What hell was that?"
"An explosion! And it has been very big!"
"It has come from the port! Over there was the Apocalypse's statue!"
"Let's go! Fast!" Scott roared, pivoting over his heels and sprinting towards the double-gate. Everyone dashed off in the wake of his rushed departure.
Jean Grey ran hurriedly at the doors, eager of being near of Scott. Nevertheless, when she was as far as the steps, the telepath turned her head feeling a strange urge. She peered at the darkness of the chamber with painstaking and thorough care, scrutinizing it through the slit revealing the messed ruins.
Because in some place of that den, in some spot, she had sensed residual telepathic energy lingering on the air. Emanations flowing from some cell of that lab, old for now but storing an unheard power, with a resonance and bio-signature very akin to hers. It was familiar and disturbing. But for some unknown motive, Jean felt something bursting and aching in her chest whenever she tuned with it. A weird joy entwined with such strong longing she wished sobbing in sorrow.
Because she sensed a loss she couldn't start to explain.
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Thousands of miles of sparkling water and limpid air stretched below and above them. The clear blue of the sky matched oddly with the cerulean color of the sea. Over there the clouds were snowy-white and soft as cotton, and the vast seascape sparkled with glistening sunrays. The scenery was pretty but no so idyllic as could seem. On the high seas the environment wasn't so badly damaged, but the perfectly pristine blue sheet was stained with dark and black blotches, and the smell to salt and water the air dragged was blended with the reek of the oil and the blood.
They were soaring across the majestic ocean to great speed, leaving behind the war-torn Eurasian continent and leading towards the ravaged-war America, sailing along the rippling water mass of the Atlantic Ocean. As long as they rocketed across the liquid landscape, a chilled and cutting wind whipped their bodies. Swirling gales streamed around them, hissing and beating them with tremendous force, constantly menacing with washing them overboard if theirs grips slipped.
"I ought to have got checked my brain."
"Don't be a grouch!"
"I'm not being a grouch. I'm merely stating I should revise my head to find out me how you talked me into this!"
"Come on, Logan! Can you tell me honestly you don't find this funny?"
"Yes, ride on a fucking Sentinel and trip across the Atlantic stuck on its windshield is my lifetime dream!"
The Betsy's voice turned serious "You know we have to help in the evacuation and protect the convoy, Weapon-X. Tag along personally was the only safe way of defending to the lead Sentinel. And this is the only way of traveling. The Council couldn't spare us one puny ship."
"Couldn't or didn't want." He growled in acknowledgement. "Still this is crazy."
"Yes, it's. Your point being?" Psylocke rebuked matter-of-factly, albeit her voice was a shout more than a statement, since the screeching howls of the hurricane battering them made difficult any communication.
A sudden gust of air yanked her purplish mane and slapped her face with it. Uttering an annoyed grunt, the ninja held it with her hand and tucked it in its place. Afterwards she leaned further down, supporting her full weight on the massive head and sticking her whole length on the square-shaped 'skull', just like some reptile would do. Wolverine was squatted beside her, gazing ahead at the skyline, waiting spotting the goal at any time. His claws itched inside his hands, looking forward to the incoming fight.
He was too edgy, though, and he decided to steer his mind out of the mission for the current moment. And the Betsy's crouched position, prone and tense on the robot's nape in resembling of a predator stalking its hunt, was attracting his attention. "You never explained me because you seem Asian being British. Or where you learnt ninja stunts."
She shot at him a sidelong glance, utterly deprecating. "Didn't I do? Intriguing, I must have neglected that clarification for some reason."
"Come on, Psylocke. If you can't trust personal secrets to your partners, how can trust your life in them when the fight starts?"
This time she turned to glare at him furiously. "Has you heard me even pry off details about the Weapon-X Project? Or question your role in the X-Men? Drop it, pal. It has nothing to do with you, and isn't anything nice to think about. And I refuse to do it."
Logan didn't miss the flash of pain twisting her enraged expression. "I'd assumed at the beginning your father could have got some affair, but your brother said earlier that wasn't your real looking-"
A purple light blazed in smoldering pupils "Don't make assumptions will force me to push you out of the Sentinel with the only purpose of finding out how long you last in sinking in the ocean, Logan. This is NOT your business, and it doesn't affect to the mission at all. Therefore, shut up your mouth."
Betsy closed her eyes but was too late for then. The inquisitorial Logan's words had brought back unbidden and unwanted remembrances in her mind. The telepath remembered her bout with The Mandarin, Lord and Ruler of half Asia. She remembered the man had conquered practically with no opposition the East half of the continent, and could become such threat like Apocalypse. She remembered the most awful and bloodiest battle of her entire life, where she defeated him and beheaded at the expense of her own body. She remembered the brave ninja dug up her torn, singed and crippled self out of a mountain of rubble and debris. She remembered the gorgeous woman feeling her grief of dying without keeping battling the fair fight, her will of surviving, her ferocious fighting spirit latent in her and her wish of getting a body where develop it. The physical fit of a true warrior, instead of the shell to store her psychic powers.
And she remembered the woman granting her wish and selflessly forfeiting her life so she carried on hers.
She shook off her head, staring determinedly ahead. "We must focus in the mission. Period."
Wolverine shrugged, preferring let slide the theme. Each one has its own issues or cruxes to bear. "All right, all right. It's only I'd rather doing this with Jean. She was very reliable."
"I DO know." Betsy grated. She toyed briefly with the idea of jamming her psychic dagger up where never shines the sun.
She was truly thanked of that psychic fellow for have her rescued from the pens. She had tasted her power, tested her courage and valued her altruism. She was certainly a woman to be reckoned, worthy of the esteem and respect her ex-partners of the rebellion gave her. But ever since her recruitment Betsy got the definite impression of they were comparing her with Jean, and looking her down. And it irked her.
"Look ahead" Logan muttered of sudden, his throaty voice interrupting her reverie. She stared at him first, and after at the direction his arm was aiming towards.
Black specks were disrupting the flat frontier between sky and sea, shining with the beams the sun cast on them. Steadily they began to grow and increase in number. Then they saw it.
Sprouting out of the ocean as tall and sharp spikes, a frontier of high towers stood upright in front of them, spreading from North to South, beyond of eyesight reach. Each building was a grotesque mass of fang-like spires spearing the sky and winding arcs and bridges connecting and linking the towers with each other. The long and extensive barrier of turrets stretched alongside of the entire American continent as a belt, beginning in the shoreline and going several miles into the sea. Watchtowers, bulwarks, checkpoints, arsenals, military bases; that gigantic, monstrous and terrific structure was all that and more. Much more. And it was stained and tainted with blood. Blood of countless slaves had been spilt to build it, but that never mattered to Apocalypse.
It was the Atlantic Wall. A stronghold capable of bearing, withstanding and enduring coordinate attacks of thousands of Sentinels. His offensive setting was capable of obliterate half planet with one single sweep of missiles.
And they were crashing towards it.
Dodging and sidestepping barrages of lasers, the Sentinel scurried off the reach of the cannons and rammed on the main compound of one tower, striking it with the shoulder. The massive spike of metal shuddered and shook as a tree assailed by a hurricane.
Weapon-X and Psylocke dismounted off the Sentinel with a somersault, rolling airborne and landing smoothly on the floor of flawless and slippery layers of titanium. Both pivoted on their feet to survey the nightmarish fortress while the Sentinel mumbled a final message with its toneless, cold voice.
"Have you listened the 'temporary reprieve' bit, Psylocke? The Council sure knows to use a short leash!" Logan shouted, willing be heard above the mayhem of warning cries and alarms buzzing.
"I'm more concerned with the implied meaning of 'Bring us here!" Betsy shouted back, her body starting to give off a violet energy enveloped her shape. "I think as long as we performed the mission we don't need return where the Council is concerned."
"Or the Sentinel doesn't need bring us back" Logan nodded sagely, and narrowed his eyes when his ears perceived a noise "Look out, girl, looks like we're about of getting company!"
The shimmering glow enveloping to Psylocke flowed towards her right fist. "I wish they hadn't bothered in welcoming us."
One hatch slid open, allowing the rushed exit of a squad of heavily powered, enraged Infinites. With bellowing war cries, the pair of X-Men bolted onwards, lunging over them.
Of sudden, when they stepped onto a tile, the unseen trapdoor caved in, and both mutants plummeted in the darkness.
A sudden rush of panic overwhelmed to Psylocke, but she overcame it swiftly. The ninja folded her knees, curling her body in a ball, and rolled on the air. Her body skimmed over something and in the dim light she could make out one wall nearby. Unfolding her body abruptly, her feet connected with the wall. She used that brief connection to support and propel downwards, landing upright on both of her feet.
Right when she breathed in relief, a steel-tough fist struck her face, and she crashed down on the floor.
Logan, being just so agile but most weighed by far, tried gyrating his body to cushion the impact of the fall. His body slammed brutally the floor, and he whimpered with the ringing hurt his skull. He struggled to stand upright when something -soft, wide, gelatinous- coiled around his stout frame and hauled him high on the air.
When his eyes got used to the scarce illumination, he saw better the contenders were assailing them in that bottomless pit. He spotted the beast-like visages and the golden pieces of armor plating.
They were two Balrogs, animalistic and wild warriors genetically engineered by Sinister. He had been picked by a strange monster of twelve feet of height with tentacles and a head vaguely resembled an elephant, whereas Betsy was being cornered for a four-armed hybrid of gorilla and bear.
He barked a swearing and lashed out violently with his claws, but the vice grip of the animal was strongest. The tendril squeezed his tentacle around his shape and started to slam around to Logan, beating him unceasingly against the walls. Weapon-X bit his lips to no cut his tongue, and wrestled to keep aware. His glazed eyesight spotted an indigo blur. He realized it was its face, at his claws' reach.
He slashed swiftly, praying to connect. An inhuman shrill of pain erupting out of fanged maws and the feeling of the loosening of the tendril announced his success. Logan hurried to sever the massive tentacle strangling him, and lunged on the animal. Six claws gleamed in the darkness, and blood and guts were sprayed everywhere between noises of flesh chopped, moans and whimpers.
Meanwhile Betsy was discovering seven-feet-tall bipedal monsters are amazingly fast to theirs size. And four arms punching and clawing with berserker rage were damned difficult of dodging. Her face was already purplish with bruises.
One palm blow of the Balrog sent her reeling on a wall. She spat a trickle of blood, and before of having got back her bearings, the animal grabbed roughly her forearms, and using the same momentum he crouched to grip her ankles. Then he let go her upper limbs and arched backwards its trunk, heaving her over its head. Using to Betsy as a whip he smashed her several times on the soil, before releasing its grip.
Its mistake. With her legs free, Betsy cartwheeled away with lightning speed, and sprang on her feet before the monster spun towards her with a wrinkling of its furry snout. A bellicose war cry erupted out of her throat when she rocketed forward. While she sprinted, wisps of energy swirled around her right fist, coalescing in a sort of immaterial drill instead on a blade.
The ninja slid easily amidst the gigantic arms, and she launched her fist onward, striking on the middle of the chest. The animal cried when he felt the energy weapon boring a hole on its thorax, and spearing its heart. Betsy pierced its loathsome body with unyielding determination and fury written all over her features. She didn't flinch even when her fist drilled the whole thorax, jutting out of its body among the shoulder plates, or when she pulled out her limb laden with blood and the Balrog fell sprawled on the floor.
She wiped out diffidently the droplets of blood had showered her. In the meantime, Logan approached to her.
"Sure I hope those weren't theirs best ones. Then this will turn out to be too easy."
Suddenly one hidden door clicked open, and a swarm of Infinites burst into the room. Both got their fighting stances ready, and bolted towards them.
Very soon a bloody pulp made of limp corpses lay around, with the armors shattered and the limbs broken. The luckiest were barely breathing.
Logan and Betsy stormed out of the room and in the passageway, sweeping the tides of soldiers arrived with assassin intentions. The two mutants exchanged a telepathic conversation, and they parted ways, Logan running upstairs and heading towards the Main Room, while she blocked the staircase threshold with herself and stopped to the Infinites as a breakwater the waves.
A long and razor sharp blade of blazing purple energy flashed in her hand. With a roar she attacked. Very soon the sound of curses and moans, flesh ripping, joints snapping and bones crunching filled the narrow corridor. And she felt a wild and exhilarating joy while beat wildly the men assaulting her, roughened murderers powerless to stop her. It was a kind of speeding drug, the sensation of her fists pummeling against the flesh, shattering armors, twisting limbs and crunching bones. That feeling and the sensation of absolute invincibility were a dangerous cocktail was drowning her in a blessed frenzy.
Right when she was more engrossed in the battle, the ceiling glowed with a blistering light. A plasma stream melt the roof with its unbearable heat, scorching the ground she stepped one split-second before.
Betsy rolled away with a handspring, gazed the hole upward, acknowledged the blonde and sinister figure, and gulped nervously.
Meanwhile in the Main Room, soldiers ran around, nervous and frantic with sheer fear, barking orders nobody bothered in obeying. A bad organized group joined to make a row in front of the doorway, pointing rifles and lasers towards the entrance.
Noise echoed from one wall. The screeching noise of metal ripping metal. Several slashes had shown on the wall, six gashes slicing diagonally the steel paneling in two rows, drawing a 'X'. Sharp claws pierced thick layers of metal, and the wall was ripped apart in shreds when Logan, Weapon-X, pierced through, somersaulting towards the Infinites with the urge of a missile. He attacked mercilessly, ignoring the bullets riddling his body and the lasers scorching and burning his skin. As he dove towards them his movements resembled one dance, where he cleaved, slashed, stabbed, speared, smashed and crushed.
One level lower, Betsy was occupied leaping away to dodge ripples of plasma capable of vaporizing her flesh in seconds, leaving remaining a blackened skeleton. Havok was flaring with energy, absorbing stellar plasma at great speed and unleashing waves of heat.
"Come on, bitch!" He snarled, shooting with both of his fisted hands "Tell me how you broke out of the pens and who helped you, and perhaps I'll let you alive!"
He joined his fists and blasted a ravenous and dazzling bolt. She ducked, and began a dance of handsprings, jumps and runs, moving aside of the beams and getting progressively nearer to Havok. In the meantime Betsy activated her telepathy to trick his perception of space and time.
Suddenly she sprang in front of him, reared her arm and hammered his forehead with her clenched knuckles, imbedding her psychic dagger deep into his brain. Havok squealed and gripped his head, drowned in the purple light raking his brain. The sight cheered to Psylocke the fewer seconds she lasted in realizing the feedback was occasioning a violent backlash. She reacted just in time, raising her hands before the world around exploded in a tidal wave of hot-melting, ivory-white radiance.
The Prelate kneeled down as the excruciating pain flaring in his nerves receded, and dazed his brain started to regain his bearings. His eyesight, blurry and glazed with tears, noticed of Psylocke. The ninja was crushed on a wall, with her back glued on it. She remained conscious and slightly crouched, keeping her palms up and open, as holding something. The place she was touching was dented with the printing of her silhouette, and the entire passage around was sizzling and steaming, having suffered the effects of the plasma discharge. The steel had melt and bubbled, giving to the corridor a surrealistic looking-alike.
He panted laboriously while he stood up. "Wench" He spat. "The silk gloves treatment is over since now. Eat this!"
A sphere of solid light flamed on his hand and he blasted it towards her. Unexpectedly it smashed on a screen of thin solid air, bursting in little sparks and fading away.
He stood speechless. "Where have you learned to do that?" He inquired, genuinely curious.
Betsy had been brought to her knees with the impact. Slowly she stood up, and willed her telekinetic shield around hers. The shield gleamed and shimmered with light. Betsy invoked her daggers on her fists, and raised up her guard. "Surprise, surprise, now I'm also a telekinetic. And believe it or not, the credit goes to McCoy. Unbeknownst to that degenerate beast, when he experimented with me, he unlocked other psionic ability in my brain. When I was with the X-Men, Magneto found out it and pushed me to develop it and test its limits. Do you want finding out exactly which they are, Havok?"
She lifted up an arm pretending an attack, but in reality masking with that motion the chunks of steel -shrapnel molten and sharp as jagged razors- her telekinesis had picked up, before hurling at Havok. But radiant brightness enveloped his body in amber glow, and the projectiles were dissolved in metallic lava.
"Your petty skills are useless, whore." He sniggered. "You have two options: Confess and die quickly, or shut up and die in a long and painful agony. Choose your pick. By the way, where is your partner?"
Albeit her head didn't move, her pupils looked up. "On your place I wouldn't be getting worried over that. Trust me. And by the way, I suppose that you get stored plenty headache pills."
"What hell are you talking about?" He wondered.
One second later, Weapon-X dropped from the roof, stomping with both of his feet on his head. As he landed neatly, Havok was thrust on the floor. There he lay motionless, knocked out.
"Great, Summers. I was wishing meet with you." He got ready his claws. "There's plenty stuff my six buddies want saying you. And sure I hope you're up to listen at them."
Betsy immediately was by his side, resting one hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Logan. Believe me I hate stopping you in this, but we have no time to revenges and settlements of feuds. The Sentinel is battling in defensive mode and we are running out of time. Have you broken down the system?"
He nodded, sheathing his daggers in his knuckles. "It's now a fucking mess, lass. They won't be doing anything with it for a long while."
"Splendid. Then it's time to scamper and get the hell out of here."
Weapon-X growled, forced to agree with her. He wasn't fond of leaving behind to Summers alone and unchecked. He would rather hinder him or handicap him of some way -preferably chopping off his legs-, but there was no time to waste in satisfactorily personal pay back.
Both warriors dashed hastily towards the upper levels, fighting their way through the few troops of Infinites enough bold or fool or frightened of Apocalypse to try stopping them. At last they reached the way out, letting a path of destruction and carnage in the wake of their trail, a wasteland of shattered armors, bloody piles of corpses smearing the floor, and blood and entrails splattering the walls.
A rush of wind blew them violently when they emerged out of the gate. The Sentinel was standing by to less than one third of mile, struggling to stay whole until they arrived. He was dodging and blocking enemy fire and throwing counterattacks every so often. Both exchanged a glance, and sprinted towards it. Still Betsy lagged behind Logan, since while he didn't sport signs of fight other than tears and cuts on his clothes, she was limping with a wavering stride and struggling to keep up with him, hindered for her wounds and bruises and lumps on her skin.
They were near of the Sentinel when an alarm ringed suddenly on her head. Too hurried and startled to be subtle and controlled, she pivoted swiftly on her feet, blasting with her full telepathic power, gathered and focused in a single beam. The purple lightning bolt struck the last pack of Infinites head-on, short-circuiting and frying their minds within seconds. Pushed for a sudden drive, she flung her arms onward with her palms wide open. Flaring tendrils of psychic energy sprouted from them, swishing while slashed the air, whipped the writhing bodies of the soldiers, and tossed them in the sea with telekinetic lashes.
A rough and furry arm wrapped around her waist and she was dragged of sudden.
Logan held her awkwardly as he ran and leapt on the Sentinel, clambering laboriously along its body and up to the head, with the passenger hoisted in his arm all along. Once up there, he laid carefully to the ninja on the shoulder of the robot. "I ought to have thought about that earlier. I'm sorry, Betsy." He growled plaintively.
She blinked with surprise. She wasn't sure of whether he was sorry or angry with himself, but was shocking watching these features displaying a fathomable and sincere concern instead the mask of harshness and fury he cloaked usually to himself with. It was a welcoming change, especially considering he had acted very gruff and anti-social where she was concerned, and suddenly was showing he cared for her. Or at least took upon himself the duty of taking care of a partner.
The 'ground' abruptly quaked and inclined. They settled on the massive and square shoulder while the Sentinel, who had noticed its cargoes had returned with the mission successfully accomplished, rose up and hovered airborne. The hieratic robot straightened its body and stood upright and majestic as a mechanic Colossus of Rhode, with its blue and green frame twinkling with the gleaming daylight. Its tall mass loomed over the remnant Apocalypse soldiers, dangerous and threatening.
Abruptly one explosion erupted, and a stream of rippling energy pierced its right leg as a bullet tearing the flesh. The Sentinel lurched and stumbled backwards, menacing with toppling. Logan and Betsy feel it wobbling and swaying, and used their strengths in clutching tightly to theirs handles. Their heads ducked simultaneously avoid the barrage of dazzling plasma bolts were being frenziedly shot at their direction.
"Oh, no" She grunted.
"Oh, yes" Logan retorted. "When you make a mistake, it's big, Psylocke."
Standing on the murky doorway the Prelate Alex Summers was wobbling unsteadily while his clenched fists crackled with energy. His disheveled looking and tattered clothes didn't diminish his menacing aspect and his fear-striking countenance. He was boiling in raw energy, with sparks erupting from his skin and singing his spiked locks. Around he energy was gathering and accumulating with no control or measure. The very air was sizzling and churning with steam.
"Where do you think you are going at, genejokes?" He roared at the top of his lungs. His eyes danced wildly, erratic and glowing with pure hatred. The X-Men gulped with nervous apprehension. He was wholly maddened. "Repugnant traitor vermin! I'll reduce you to yours atoms!" Alex boomed with the fury of a thunder. With that his body exploded in charring energy, the explosion matching his yell.
Meanwhile the Sentinel had established and balanced, and now was staring at Alex with its unreadable face, bereft of emotion. The only visible changes were the beeping red lights flashing on its eyes.
/Mutant Menace Targeted. Mutant Identified As Alexander Summers, Prelate Havok, Alpha-Level/ It uttered /Proceeding To His Termination With Extreme Caution/
He aimed a huge fist towards him. A metallic click sounded on the elbow, and the forearm separated from the other half of the limb. The detached member rocketed towards Havok, who was too stunned to react, snatched him in the vice-like grip of its fingers, and with a burst of flaming motors the punch launched to itself inside the Tower, imbedding in a teleporter portal.
With a bloodcurdling screech, the Prelate vanished in a pool of light, blinking in other portal, far away from them.
Weapon-X and Psylocke gaped, victims of the most absolute disbelief.
/Mutant Menace Neutralized. Objective of Mission Achieved. Proceeding To Return To The Headquarters/
With those words the Sentinel started the motors attached to its heels and backside, and it floated on the air before skyrocketing upwards and sailing across the blue sky, back to Europe.
The cold hurricane slapping her face and prickling her hide with frostbite pried to Betsy out of her stunned state. She clung to the robot with her hooked hands, performing again the exercise of riding the Sentinel avoiding being dragged away for the fast wind and thrown out of the carcass and in the unforgiving water. She was growing very tired of that old stunt was leaving her body sore and cranky.
Logan held to himself dexterously beside to her, fixing his eyesight on the far sky. Countless specks were spotting the skyline, growing and flying towards them at great speed.
"Look, Betsy. Looks like today we are driving against the traffic."
She gasped in awe. "It's the Great Evacuation, Logan."
Both kept silent and still while the specks grew steadily, turning blue instead black, and glowing with metallic glints. Slowly they took shape until becoming the outlines of several Sentinels. A lot of Sentinels. A swarm of Sentinels, soaring with rocket speed towards them, a fleet so massive darkened the sky and clouded the sun, so large embraced the full skyline. The roars of their motors joined and blended together, creating a horrific and eardrum-shattering rumble, louder than millions of thunders. It reminded to Betsy of the Doomsday, even if the Sentinels resembled a buzzing swarm of metallic beetles.
The telepath and the feral mutant watched them as wheezed past them. Their flights slashed the air and left a trail of thick and acrid smoke behind. Jokes about bees or wasps aside, she couldn't help feel hope blossoming in her aching and bleeding heart, seeing the European helping to the helpless and tormented humans of America. Perhaps there was hope to be embraced after all, although she was guessing Logan preferred wait to see that people safe and sound in Bristol before of allowing to himself breathe in relief.
Her gawking stare remained transfixed and enthralled in the robots soaring in endless rows towards North America, when a sudden ripple suddenly ringed in her mind. Miles far away met a familiar mind. Her worry and distress were so overwhelming she was projecting strongly from so long distance. Betsy was nearly flooded with those overflowing feelings.
Ororo. She and others X-Men were jeopardizing their lives in Maine to help to the Sentinels to protect to the people and rescue them from the bloodstained and sharp-nailed Apocalypse's clutches. And she was worn off, having used her vast climatic power until her exhaustion.
Grim fear crawled in her chest, dimming the restored hope, and anguish gripped her heart. Elisabeth Braddock, never the most religious person on the wide world, mumbled one silent prayer for her friends, at the same time sending hope and encouragement to Storm.
She beseeched to a God had forsaken its world and its children to save her friends and permit the evacuation.
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A lonely, murky-black carriage rolled along a dusty path, concealed in the shadows of the night. A silvery full moon cast its ivory radiance over the Earth, enlightening the route with pale brightness. Sitting on the box rested two figures, one of them holding the reins of the two mares trotting at leisure along the country, and other determinedly focused on the film of sand and filth covering the barren ground. He narrowed two tired eyes, and suddenly held full reign of each grain of dirt and speck of sand covering the floor. He started to entertain to himself picking up the motes and swirling them in tiny vortexes and clouds.
Despite of the mix of amusement and training he was dozing slowly, lulled with the frequent bumps and springs of the coach, and drowsy with the glittering and mesmerizing nightlight. Sometimes his friends compared jokingly the starts of the coach with the sways of a crib. He used to smirk to that mocking way of calling him 'baby', but he really didn't remember how was a crib or a lullaby. Neither how was being cradled by loving arms and soothed with tender and melodic words. He knew nothing of that, so he couldn't feel reminiscences at all.
He might get weary, but his mind was too anxious and edgy to simply rest, and stashed plenty psychic energy, enough to afford a waste of power so ridiculous and useful as scanning from time to time the astral plane. Suddenly his brain brushed with its sweeps a presence very nearby. It seemed no hostile, but it felt oddly familiar. And it startled him in some strange kind of way he couldn't explain.
"Forge" He whispered. This didn't bode him well.
"I've seen him already" His mentor and father nodded from the depths of the cowl.
Standing in the middle of the way stood a tall figure, showing the same calm of someone who is waiting patiently. The moonlight showed a large man wrapped in maroon robes, too thick and warm to that region and season. His face was chiseled with very rough angles, and his round head was fully shaven except several long strands of raven hair he had tied in one plait.
Nathan felt to himself stupidly curious with the man and his strange appearance.
"Good night, noble travelers. Excuse my intruding, but I noticed of your cart and few people travels like that in this age." He greeted with a sweeping gesture. "I'm called Essex. And I think I can be helpful to you, friends."
His eyes sparkled with a crimson shimmer, and his mouth's corners tugged the lips upwards. The smile displayed sharp shark-like teeth, and it was very eerie and bereft of human warmth. It was a cold and predator grin, which tried to seem kind and reassuring. It was unsettling instead, like a lambskin dressing a wolf. Evil playing to be good.
Nathan felt a disturbing shuddering. He hesitated of that man, and wondered whether that grin, with those mischief eyes and that greedy countenance was led at him. The man seemed a hunter had just found his prey.
He steeled to himself, set on reading and scanning his mind to verify that person. Then he would know what ought to be done with that man. All in all, whoever that man was he couldn't keep anything away him, neither hide secrets to his telepathy. Right?
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End of Part Three.
Notes: * In the Japanese mythology, Emma-O was the Judge of the Dead. When one person passed on, his soul met with him, and he decided whether it deserved the Heaven or the Hell or would go to the reincarnation.
In the Part Four Cyclops and Havok talk with Apocalypse, Scott and Jean investigate the departure of Essex and Betsy runs away from Europe. Besides, we see a day in the pens.