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Age Of Apocalypse: Shifting Times
Author: Jenskott
Summary: In an alternate AOA, Weapon-X never rescued to Jean Grey from the pens. That single fact changed the world.
Notes: Please, give me more reviews. I crave for them. Come on! By the way, I'm thinking about beta-reading the first and second chapters and post them in other archives.
The man Meltdown runs into at the beginning is a pre-existent character. I couldn't take the easy way and design a random and anodyne victim, nooo, I had to look for a Marvel character. I looked for a mutant first, but after I was picking other super-heroes. Regrettably the Fantastic Four, many Avengers, Daredevil, Punisher and others had been used already. Finally I settled on War Machine (Jim Rhodes). But his apparition isn't very... important or crucial anyway.
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 Four. Blind Flight-
Midnight on the pens.
Tabitha Smith had lived through better days.
Those were the murky thoughts, oozing bleakness, of the girl while she lurked along her cell. Her black convict's dregs were tattered and torn, soiled with mud and stained with blood. Her legs were sore and limp and her muscles flaccid and numb, but she wouldn't let that deter her. The stubborn and determined teenager crawled along the ground, sinking her nails in the dust, supporting her weight in her elbows and thrusting her body forward. Her advance marked it a long path of dug furrows. She was get used to crawl like that continuously, and that tough exercise had changed her thin and smooth hands into callous and roughened claws, and had hardened her knees.
She dragged her body along the cell, ignoring the wails of the surrounding boxes, the reek of rotten corpses, the flies prowling in her wounds, the sharp ache in her cracked jaw, the injures in her legs and midsection and the pain in her gnarled hands. She ignored everything and advanced relentlessly. Nothing would stop her. Nothing would sway her away her goal. Nothing would be able deter her ever.
At last Tabitha reached her destine, and with a laborious effort she twisted her body and sat on her shins. Tabitha wheezed shakily, and rested. Her joints cracked with pangs of aching pain. One of her hands combed her cropped-short blonde hair, smearing it with plenty gunk. Her young eyes locked her tired and ageless stare with the glazed and frozen pupils of the man lying beside her.
He was a black man, and probably athletic and good-looking in another time. However he wasn't exactly in his best fit. His obsidian-like ebony pupils were frozen and ogled at the dome, and his eyes were permanently open, unblinking as glass beads. His gaping lips were dry and cracked and tinged with a bluish color. A trickle of cool saliva leaked out of one corner. He was sprawled in cross-position, as a sort of sacrifice, and his limbs were stiff and hard. Throughout his entire body he was bruised, and displayed on his skin riddles, welts, bruises, scars and lumps, every of them in rows or zigzagging along his body. His hide was clinging tightly the ribcage, and covering flaccidly a hollow abdomen. The last blows had disfigured his countenance with swollen and purple-hued marks of punches. Still she believed guessing sharp and eagle-like features. He had been handsome, serious and tenacious during his youth.
Tabitha gave him a forlorn, mournful glance. Wetness dampened her eyes. With great tenderness she moved one hand over his eyes and slid down the eyelids. Shut his eyes was the least she could do, and she'd close his mouth equally, but the jaw muscles were stiff already. She basked in her sorrow for a single moment more, allowing to the pity and kindness dwelling in her heart again. Vanished the mourning instant she opened her eyes and began to rummage in his pockets.
She swiped a slice of stale bread out of one of them. Overwhelmed with a joyous glee, she dusted off the coat of green mold and gnawed the bread eagerly. While Tabitha ate, she was assaulted for a strange fit of persistent consciousness. She quelled down the last surviving bits of her ancient scruples, and carried forward her misdeed.
He had been a good man. She wasn't sure of his genetic make-up, but he had been kind and generous, one of the last honest and noble souls in being hurled in that pit. He reserved food to the sickest prisoners, and he offered her bread or water every so often. She was glad of having known at least one good person in that godforsaken Hell, and would cherish his memory. But she needed live, and he wouldn't need the food anyway. Never again.
During the last outbreak he had received a nasty hit, suffering massive internal injuries eventually killed him with a long and painful agony. She hid behind him, waiting for a chance, and then pounced on the giant whore. Unfortunately her stupid brother had been there to back her, and he beat up her roughly, breaking her jaw with a well-placed jab. She looked forward to one opportunity to give him a lesson he would forget neither soon nor easily, but her hopes weren't high. They weren't anymore.
But one thing hadn't changed in that time: her will to survive. She had survived to the beatings of her drunken father. She had survived to the war, to the culls and to the moving to New York by a freight train -the detail told all really about what Holocaust thought of them and where they stood to him-. She had survived to the pens, the starving, the thirst, the beatings and the rebellions. And she'd survive to this, even if she needed steal breadcrumbs and spoiled meat to cadavers in order to see the next dawn.
She munched the last bits of the loaf, being careful of pick up any crust or crumb dropped on the floor, and licked her lips. The slice was just as tasty as the blotches of grime smeared her cheeks and chin, but she wasn't complaining. Her taste buds had been burnt long ago.
A young werewolf girl -Rhane was her name, she believed- crawled near of her, her nostrils sniffing the air fiercely. She had smelt the food. Oh, well, too late sister, the life sucks and all that.
Suddenly she spotted in her eye's corner other figure approaching. A dark, flowing shade. She turned at the newcomer, wondering if she'd be due to other fight. That type of stuff delighted to the jailers.
Her eyes bulged. It wasn't possible. She had heard rumors of prisoners of other cells when they were mixed (after each mutiny the Infinites hardly mattered them whether the prisoners were dumped in their own cells or not. Of course the prelates used that excuse to vent theirs frustrations with the low-rank soldiers). But she hadn't entirely believed it. However he was here. He had come. The mysterious figure rescued prisoners and led them to the freedom.
And it was here and now. That person was tall and shadowed, but she couldn't tell anything else. A wide and flowing dark-blue cloak draped its body, billowing with each motion and enveloping its shape in darkness and mystery. Within the cowl two red-glowing dots pierced the blackness.
He spread out one gloved hand. Towards Rhane. "Come with me if you want live."
The voice was a ghastly whisper and the statement was plain and imperious, but she had acknowledged a male voice in its rough and throaty tone. He was a man.
Propping on her elbows and knees, Rhane struggled to stand upright. She glanced with bulged and frightened eyes to her savior, and spared a brief at two bundles curled up in the corner.
The man nodded. "If you can carry them in arms, catch them."
Repressing a squeal of joy, the mutant of reddish-brown fur sauntered towards the two heaps, and returned hauling one in each arm. They were two young boys, one of pink skin and other of green hide, both with misshapen heads and blank eyes. They were shuddering and trembling compulsorily, clinging with despair to the chest of the girl.
Tabitha darted on her feet quickly, suddenly oblivious to the hurt racking her physique. Anxious eyes looked deep in the man's cowl, in the place where she guessed his eyes were. "Carry me with you, please" She pleaded. Tears stung her eyes. "I can walk on my own. I promise I'll be not a burden."
"I can't, child" The man sentenced, shattering her fluttering hopes, mirages of freedom had warmed briefly her heart. "If it was up to me, I'd get out to everyone of you. But the risk of being discovered is very high." He shut up for a second, mulling silent whispers as looked over her distraught, anguished face, scarred by the years and the grieves. "I'll be back for you. Soon." He muttered.
He ushered to Rhane out of the cell, and with a flap of his cloak, he strode with the same stealth secrecy and dramatic air he had sported when he sneaked into. Behind him the light bars flashed back, sealing the cell again.
However now Tabitha wasn't feeling despair gripping her soul. There was now another sensation stirring in her chest. Perhaps it was nothing but a fleeting hope, a letdown awaiting her at the end. But she now was looking forward to the future. If that man -whoever he was- tried saving her again, she'd be ready.
She claimed back her filthy patch of ground, and crossed her knees. Then she started to reflect. There was something amiss in that man. Something akin...
Of sudden she was sure of having heard his voice before, but it was muffled and masked, and she couldn't put her finger on the owner. And something in his stride puzzled her furthermore. Nearly seemed he was trying dodging something...
Of course. The watching cameras.
She recalled his movements, the route he had followed towards the doorway, and her eyes darted upwards. Her piercing stare searched patiently throughout the roof, looking for a camera.
At last. The device was over there. And it was aimed towards her.
Following on an odd impulse, she picked a pebble of the ground, and threw it towards the machine using her whole remainder strength. The rocky projectile struck head-on the lens, breaking down the camera.
From now on that garbage wouldn't be recording to anyone else.
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The next morning.
"I don't believe yet Sinister handed over information to the Human Council."
"Right."
"I'm glad of no having been the one explained it to Apocalypse."
"Right."
"Do you remember what he did to Gorgon when he talked about the Brazilian failure?"
"Right."
"You aren't hearing one word of what I'm saying, are you?"
"Right."
Alex spun his heels at his brother and exploded "Damn it, Scott! Listen me when I speak at least!"
Scott withstood the Alex's outburst with an unnatural and studied calm born of the extensive practice. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Alex, but I'm having much to think lately."
"Fine" He growled in acquiescence but hardly placated. Scott blinked, suitably stunned. In the seldom occasions Scott was due to apologize to Alex, his brother beamed and gloated for hours. Alex had to be tenser and crankier than usual if he had accepted his apology without a fuss. Better be guarded-
"Snap out of it!" Alex roared again, and this time Scott felt a blush reddening his cheeks. What hell was wrong with him today? Normally he wasn't so distracted, and didn't slip so easily. "I was telling I find remarkable he used to that runt of Weapon-X to deliver his message."
"Oh, yes?" Scott answered, pretending disinterest.
"Yes. What does you redhead friend opine about this? She used to share bed with that troll after all. Albeit that was before she joined to us. Right?" Alex stressed each word, goading to his brother, baiting, yearning for he fell for it.
And how was usual, Scott didn't bite the bait. Instead he rebuked his taunts with his noncommittal, nonchalant voice. "She hasn't told me anything. And I fail in seeing what it has to do with this."
Alex curled his lower lip, considering baiting to Scott, but something in him pointed that it would be useless. He preferred change the theme. "Yet I don't understand why Sinister has rebelled against Apocalypse. It's suicidal."
His brother stared ahead and speeded up his pace. "Apocalypse didn't seem surprised of the news at all. Actually he behaved like if he expected Sinister betrayed him."
Havok shook his head in disbelief. "How can he possibly giving up such power?"
"HOW COULD HE NOT, ALEX SUMMERS?" A voice thundered. And its very echo filled the chambers and shook the walls.
They had just reached the Throne Chamber, so artificial and chilling, so sterile and bereft of life as every doing of its maker. And in front of them, flaunting dark regalia stood Apocalypse. Sit on the top of a mountain of fleshless and yellowish skulls, held by legions of cadavers and an immeasurable pride.
The Throne was situated on the highest peak of the Tower. Very few dared to tread in it, and even fewer returned alive of an audience. The domed chamber was a gigantic hallroom with pillars of machinery and cables going from floor to roof and holding the dome like columns of machinery. The room was submerged in deep darkness, but it didn't impede see the carpet of skeletons, bones and skulls littering the floor. The last remnants of hundreds of poor innocents whose only sin was being born weak. Theirs vestiges lay piled up in the vast room like a sinister and macabre furniture, and supported onto the tallest and most towering mound was the large armchair where Apocalypse lounged.
He supported lazily his arms on the armrests and leaned back his armored body in a relaxed position, which didn't instill comfort or irradiate enjoyment at all. His clutches gripped firmly the knobs, his fierce eyes flashed red, and the foreboding and grim countenance never left his expression while he inspected to both. It could become unsettling, and that was his obvious intention, since he couldn't care less the comfort and serenity of his slaves. Actually he preferred them ever frightened and cowed of his majesty.
Apocalypse eyed thoughtfully at each one with his petrified face twisted in a gloomy grimace. Inwardly he felt bemused by the blatant Havok's fear and uneasiness that glimmered on his blue eyes.
"How could he not, Prelate?" He bellowed again. "Of all my Horsemen, Sinister was the most reluctant to the saddle. And he cherished scheming and manipulating both in the life and in his genetic lab alike. Otherwise notice in the two Alpha mutant siblings he chose to his Elite Mutant Force."
His grotesquely thick lips curled in an awful grimace. A chilly mockery of grin. It gave shudders to Alex.
"But Sinister can't possibly be so fool to dare to defy you, my Lord." He stammered. A sudden rush for fleeing hurriedly out of there and away from him was taking over his body.
"No directly. Sinister is too clever to commit such mistake. There is no doubt that he shall have started some hopeless plan conceived to overthrow me." He frowned and picked up idly a little skull. His thick fingertips brushed thoughtfully the round and fragile head. "Let him follow on his game. Deep down into his soul he knows the unavoidable end shall be his demise."
Abruptly the fist closed violently, crushing in crunched fragments the skull like a nutshell. His arm whipped with fierceness in a circular motion, throwing around the shards of bone.
"I have been centuries filling oceans with my enemies' blood! I have built an empire over the bones of the ones opposed to me! I am APOCALYPSE! I REMAIN!" He bellowed with the rumble of a thunderstorm.
A rain of crunched splinters scattered over the pile of skeletons, bouncing on the skulls and slipping among the bones.
Havok stepped back without realizing, a deep dread and reluctance paralyzing him. Cyclops though remained impassive and motionless, observing to the megalomaniac unleashing his ire upon the remains of a deceased body. Sinister had trained him to remain imperturbable and cool at any situation, never showing any weakness. And wasn't in his character either back down in fear or cringe in choking dread. Threats or exhibitions of bloodlust, violence and power couldn't intimidate him, not matter whom.
Besides, he had never been impressed with those displays. Analyzed with cool logic, that feat could perform it any human. If Apocalypse stomped cadavers to show off his might, he had failed spectacularly with him. Scott had never understood why killing to someone weaker and defenseless is a proof of strength and manliness. Or the glory of making screaming to someone before annihilating him or her. He had kept those reflections always to himself, writing them off like heresy, but when he knew to Jean... He couldn't deny them longer. The pens stopped of making sense. 'Mercy will get you killed, Scott' had said Sinister, and it had been his motto to live for, but this monstrosity...
The miserable souls in the jails stared him with fear and horror. And why shouldn't they? He was the true monster there. No them. Him.
But he could be strong enough to overpower the fear to change his life, rebel and make amends.
"Excuse me, my Lord." He stated. "But I don't think we must underestimate to Sinister. He was one of the artificers of the Ascension. His knowledge can make us harm."
Hearing those words Apocalypse rose up slowly, with his blue-and-red cloak flowing sinisterly behind him. The External stood up in firm stance and looked over attentively at Scott. He was highly impressed. Even though he loved spreading panic and fright in the hearts of his slaves -because every of his servants weren't anything but slaves-, he didn't brook weakness or cowardliness. The strong and fit didn't shudder facing theirs superiors and betters, they showed respect and submission. Thus he regarded his babbling and writhing minions as expendable fodder cannon or mere forage, whereas he appreciated and promoted the ones proved bravery and determination. They were the pawns he could really craft in useful tools. And they paid respect and pledged devotion, although hardly showed any fear of him.
And Scott Summers was one of those men.
"Unlike your brother, you don't back down of my choler. You stand firm. It isn't a wonder Sinister talked so favorably about you, Scott Summers" Apocalypse muttered, peering at Cyclops with approving eyes. "Perhaps in the incoming conflict you shall fill your mentor's spot, remaining by my side like a Horseman."
"Your wish is my bidding, my Lord" The Scott's face was an unreadable mask of impassivity while he replied. From his eye's corner he had noticed something moving. His brother face. Downcast and twisting in a mixture of rage and frustration. Apparently he was neither glad nor pleased with the announcement.
He did two of them.
"Know many trials are awaiting you before reaching that upper rank, Prelate. For now you are in charge of the Elite and the pens. I shall be watching closely and carefully."
Alex coughed, managing reminding to Apocalypse of his presence. "You can count with my reiterated loyalty, my Lo-"
"Try pampering my ego in such pitiful way isn't the best method to earn my approval, Prelate" He sneered contemptuously, harshly. His voice dripped acid scorn towards him. "The audience is over. Dismissed."
The Summers brothers bowed respectfully and marched out of the throne with great strides. Both were enveloped in a tight, pregnant, strained silence. Alex remained tight-lipped and stiffened, restraining of speaking because he was churning in anger. Scott was grim and oblivious to the outside world, churning in another emotions. Alarm, apprehension and misgivings.
Apocalypse had said he would be watching him closely and carefully.
Fucking marvelous.
However wasn't until they had emerged out of the Black Tower and were ridding their motorbikes when Alex let out the outburst of repressed and frustrated rage he had refrained and bottled up until then.
"It was bad enough already you were the Sinister's favorite, and now Apocalypse himself offers you the Horseman rank. Everybody give you everything on a silver plate." He released his resentment through the method of clenching the throttle. He didn't hide his bitterness. Not even was trying.
"I never asked for anything of it, Alex. You DO know it." Scott retorted, turning around the throttle to keep up with his younger brother, ignoring his biting statements. He got used to put up with them as a rock boulder endures a tempest of leaves and pebbles.
"Then you're crazy" He sentenced, his fury increased twofold instead placated. Frustration was overwhelming him. His brother not only received everything but also he valued nothing. Further proof of he didn't deserve it at all from his viewpoint. "Don't you want the power, the prestige that Holocaust and Abyss have and gloat over? Aren't you tired of being anyone else's hound?"
"Don't matter what I want." He growled in comeback. And it was true. With the exception of Jean, it had never mattered to someone. It never did. He never asked for it, he never wanted it, he never needed it. They simply laid the burden on his shoulders, never interested at the very least in his opinion, and expected he fulfilled those obligations. Scott knew Alex had never considered that. He protested and claimed he was awfully underestimated and misunderstood, and reasoned it was obviously his blame. "My main duty is ensuring the pens. Oh, by the way"
He pulled down the brake, and the bike halted with the screeching sound of rubber on asphalt. A twin noise echoed by his side. His head turned at Alex. "When I return I want a detailed report of the last flight on my desk. Now I need look after of a problem."
A grating of jaws answered him. "Taking advantage of your charge already, Scotty?"
"Not even start now, Alex. I'm in a bad mood today already. You are the Chief of Security. It is your job."
Scott started the engine. The motor burnt petroleum with an insufferable whir. The noise was grating, but it sounded to purring murmur to its owner.
"Oh, yes? And what are you going to do now?" The plasma-generator taunted.
"Check again the Sinister's headquarters." Scott replied matter-of-factly. Alex blinked, wondering in a corner of his mind if Scott was suffering amnesia of sudden.
"Please, Scott! We have revised that everywhere! What can possibly you find worthwhile inside there?"
"Maybe every. Maybe nothing." He rebuked darkly, and motored out of that bend of the street.
While he swerved the first corner his eyesight spotted to Alex blasting to cinders a ledge. Scott wondered again what he had done to deserve such immense hatred and loathing of his brother.
Why did he abhor him so immensely? What had he done? He never wished the so-called honors Alex envied fiercely. He hated them. In fact he loathed all of this. The EMF, the pens, the Tower, the Apocalypse's America... All was wrong. That power wasn't such power. And he wagered Alex was spouting right now he didn't deserve be a Horseman. Laughable. He DIDN'T want being Horseman.
Really there was nothing for him in that hell. Nothing other than death at the end. And maybe it wasn't even relevant. His life was hollow, worthless and bereft of things the fate had taken away of him since his childhood. And he sometimes had cursed and blessed at once to that redhead and hotheaded rebel of green eyes and snappy temper for having showed him. She was someone worth of living for.
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Jean Grey pulled back her wavy curls of blazing hair and kneeled gingerly on the dust. A slim forefinger traced one straight line on the black grime soiling the boulders. Her emerald irises contemplated the white streak it had left. She rubbed her fingertips disdainfully to clean the gunk, and straightened.
A slight breeze blew among the ruins, and misshapen acid clouds rolled along the grey sky overhead. Her eyes surveyed the wreckage and she sighed. Loudly.
Scott, who had been checking the opposite side of the formerly secret hideout, whirled around slowly and placed a friendly and encouraging hand on her shoulder. There was something weary and fatalist in his gestures and his countenance.
"No luck, right?"
The shaking of head and her disappointed expression were more informative than her words. "No at all. Not even lingering traces of psychical residues. Technically this is a dead zone in astral plane terms. Sinister not only wiped off any bit of information but also cleansed telepathically the place. He did a thorough job masking his presence and destroying his trail."
Scott sighed, scratching his head. A light gust was toying with his long and fluttering brown strands. "It's obvious Sinister was preparing this rebellion since years ago and is likewise obvious he got ready for this moment. He knew we would track the entire country, and has taken measures to protect to himself. He knows our methods and has studied our technology in greater depth than any scientific. So then he is perfectly aware of the ways of hiding or dodging us. I reckon doubtful we found him, unless he commits a very blatant and clumsy mistake. And the odds of it ever happening are slim."
Unexpectedly his vision blurred briefly. He staggered backwards, feeling a sudden dizziness weighing in him. It reminded him of the headaches he suffered back in the orphanage, the first hints of the arising of his power. Scott clenched tightly his eyelids and took off his visor gingerly. His digits massaged in smooth circles his eyeballs.
Jean was instantly by his side, squeezing softly one of his shoulders. He practically could picture in his mind the vision of her face, distressed and stricken for the concern.
"Scott are you all right?" She queried. Her voice had an anxious quality on the tone. Next to distraught.
He placed back the visor. The telltale clicks signaled he had locked it and was held firmly around his head. One hand pressed gently on the bulged forehead, stroking and kneading it slowly to dull the discomfort.
"I'm just fine. I think" He whispered. His voice sounded worn and hoarse, and he slurred some letters, so it didn't ease the Jean's concern. "I haven't high temperature and my temples aren't clammy. It's the stress probably. A reunion with Apocalypse can be very tiresome and distressing. And frustrating."
"I know" She mused, remembering the first time she'd been introduced to that monster. It wasn't easy be several feet from him and pretending she didn't want to rip off his fucking head, spit it and piss on it. Especially when he began to speak. Her efforts and restrain were nothing less than Herculean then. "Attend to meetings with him almost seems your only task of late." She quipped, trying light up the situation.
"True, true." He stated with a nod. The last two days he had met with Apocalypse thrice at least, just like if he was filling his mentor's shoes already. The attendance to report Sinister had flown away the nest -with the very interesting assumption of Shadow King-, the emergency reunion to report of the breach in the Atlantic Wall, with the surprise of knowing who had passed information on the enemy in addition, and the last meeting that morning.
Isn't it ironical? He talked telepathically. We were going crazy to find a way of warning to the X-Men when Sinister saved us of the trouble at the end
"Yes" She mumbled off-handily. Her face couldn't mask her emotions though: a colorful blend of regret, longing and bitterness.
Scott pressed, maybe not very cleverly, but out of genuine interest. You have been very touchy with that theme since I told about it. Are you upset knowing your boyfriend is up now?
A mental sigh Partially, Scott. If you don't mind, I'd rather not speaking about it
Jean shut down her side of the link so he didn't feel the conflicting emotions swirling within her. She had felt a pang of jealousy when she saw him getting around with other female partner, the woman she rescued. She wasn't sure of whether she was jealousy for seeing him with other woman or for witnessing his easiness to replace his former partner for another, a beautiful telepath like herself. The former option was irrational considering she wasn't sure of her own feelings anymore, but the later one wasn't a bit more logic. Still she felt a grudging and petty resentment when she pondered about it. The part funny was that besides the bitterness she felt... relief? A loosening of the guilt?
So many emotions were entwining together and yanking of her from every the directions. She couldn't untangle her own mixed feelings, a jumble of emotions tightly threaded she couldn't straighten or didn't want sort out. Confusion, fear, reluctance. And if she couldn't explain her heart to herself, how could she begin to explain it to anyone else?
She opened again the psilink, allowing to Scott know the last part of her reflections, hoping he understood it. He nodded.
By the way He broadcast, switching themes with a fast easiness born of long practice Do you remember the telepath the Shadow King talked about? Have you perceived anything about it?
She kept the silence for a short while. Yes. I did. Miss that presence would be hard
Then do you know anything about him? He prodded. He didn't verbalize the importance of that finding. A telepath capable of daring the Apocalypse's supremacy would be very helpful to theirs plans.
Yes. He's moving over the Middle West. I haven't tried contacting him, but he shines with the radiance of a star core. The astral plane is overflowed with energy these days because he throws waves of power in it, and the plane shudders and shakes each time he uses his might
Scott didn't understand really that technical babble about telepathy, but he had got a faint inkling of what she meant. Is he really so powerful?
Yes. I had never believed possible a human body was able of storing such mass of energy. His potency, his power... it is unheard! I've never known something akin to it. However the oddest part is... Somehow I think he's related with me
Scott blinked behind his red lenses. Perhaps you should speak with him. If he's so powerful can become a menace so terrible like Apocalypse himself. Maybe we can help him
Jean nodded. She knew, with wisdom beyond her years, that the line between a god and a devil is very thin indeed. Suddenly a nearby psychic flare alerted her senses, and she switched to spoken language subconsciously. "Scott, someone is approaching from the sky!"
"What is it? A Sentinel?" He spun around swiftly and scanned the firmament with his sharpened gaze. His keen sight had noticed a discordant shape moving few seconds earlier.
A darkened and cross-like figure sailed in front of the pale sun, before diving downwards with swift flaps of his long and broad wings of snowy-white feathers.
Angel landed smoothly on the ground, stepping noiselessly with his high black boots amidst the gravel and debris of glass and metal. With an uninhibited sweep of wings, he folded his extra limbs on his back and stared ahead at the Prelate.
His mouth twisted with a sneering grimace. "Please, Summers, I know you use shades but don't tell me you can mistake me with an ugly mutant-killer robot."
The flying mutant took a second to spare a stealth glance at Jean Grey, who was approaching at them and standing beside to Cyclops like she did always. Suddenly he felt a strange sensation. Of rightness. A weird compulsion, a longing, an odd homesickness. Like if he should feel this familiar for some reason, and grieved because it wasn't. He couldn't tell why. He had never known too well to Cyclops. They had never become friends, not even awkward. The man wasn't a generous or steady customer, so drawn in his obligations, duties and responsibilities he denied to himself the right to behave as a human being and getting fun. However he was correct and polite, reasonable when you weren't in his way and didn't cross him and wasn't liable to give troubles or close down the establishment. On the other hand Jean Grey was a wonderfully beautiful woman, a splendid piece of womanhood, but she had shown in very clear and unmistakable terms she wasn't even considering the possibility of getting involved romantically with him.
Her loss.
Then why was he regretting of sudden not knowing better to those two persons?
Jean Grey observed curiously to Worthington. He had stood frozen suddenly, and his thoughts were a quizzical jigsaw. She smiled with an amused and intrigued expression. At first she hadn't liked Angel. Actually she despised him openly like either of the X-Men. They considered him no more than a lapdog, a profiteer had survived standing in the middle of both sides, thriving at the expense of billions of humans and mutants that died everyday without a trace. He lived in his high golden palace while people perished, groveling as a worm to please to Apocalypse. But she had learnt gradually the life facts never are so easy as 'white' or 'black' and the people rarely can be compartmentalized. Scott was a fine example of that. There was more in Worthington than the eye met. And she had ended up admitting Angel wasn't really bad, avaricious or self-centered, but he struggled to survive in extremely difficult conditions. And despite of the fervent and earnest X-Men's spurn, they utilized him regardless because he was useful and convenient. So then they weren't better than he was.
Scott clicked two fingers together, snapping to Angel out of his oblivious state, and he felt a sort of guilty amusement seeing him blinking. He wasn't really very interested in anything of that man, but there had to be a mighty reason driving to Angel to leave his shelter and meet with them in the secret Sinister's lair.
"What are you doing out here, Worthington? I believe this is the first time I've seen you out of your nightclub."
Angel shrugged his shoulders, and his wings mimicked the motion. "I was told Sinister flew off the nest." He hoped his nonchalant expression covered the blush creeping in his cheeks. He really shouldn't have got spaced out. It did him look like idiot.
A brown eyebrow was arched. "I'm sure you did know it before me."
"Ha! This time my contacts weren't so good."
Jean glared him dubiously. "Why are you so troubled, Worthington? You've kept always away of the political affairs of the Tower."
"And with good motives... but there're rumors about a war with Europe." Steadily his evasive glance was sharpening in a worried, tense frown. "And an Armageddon would be bad, Miss Grey."
"Bad for whom?" Scott interjected suddenly.
"For you and for me, Scotty. For you and for me."
Scott began to speak with Warren in a paused, secretive way, questioning more than conversing or answering. While he kept to Angel distracted, Jean stepped back and lifted up one hand to her temple, shutting her eyes.
His soul drifted away her body and floated towards other plane of the existence.
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Imagine a world fabricated with billions of patches of different color, size and shape, arranged together as a three-dimensional checkered mantle. Imagine billions of billions of immaterial strands entwining and weaving in a tapestry of ever changing images and pictures. Imagine a realm of pure energy, fueled with the raw power of the whole conscience of the humanity, billions of minds pouring in it energy, thoughts, reasons, emotions, dreams, desires, ambitions, letdowns, loves, hatreds, loyalties, betrayals. Imagine that blend stirring together, mixing and churning slowly. Imagine a landscape perpetually changing and folding on itself, irised with the entire range of colors in the chromatic spectrum, glowing and pulsating with sparkling brightness or dimming and blackening with pitch-black darkness. Imagine it ruled for waves and hurricanes of thought, altering unceasingly the panorama with each whim. Imagine a reign where there's no floor or roof, no up or down, where the only rule is the imagination and the only weapon is the will.
That is the astral plane, the world where telepaths dwell. The sum of the consciousness of the entire humankind. There aren't directions, there aren't distances, get the bearings is impossible with the single tool of the visual and spatial memory. The surroundings are changing, shifting and warping constantly.
Like always, the panorama of that secret and private landscape took the Jean's breath away. Of course it was entirely symbolic since in that shape she didn't breath.
Not stopping to gape at the scenery she tracked down the telepath she was looking for. She didn't take long in locating him, since in that ghastly shade she was pretty more sensible to the shifts in the astral plane. And that telepath blazed as a sun, dimming the remainder minds with his glow and heat. Even she was fazed and overwhelmed. It was so huge, so gigantic the astral plane couldn't contain it. It shuddered with its very existence. And each time he used his power, caused an earthquake whose ripples spread everywhere.
Jean traveled towards the epicenter with the speed thought, dodging sideways particularly nasty waves. As she plunged in the star and advanced further into it, she shielded his mind to avoid being charred by the unbearable hotness or snuffed out by the impossibly bright light. After of a flight Jean felt eternal, she arrived to the core.
She narrowed in slits her eyelids and peered into. Her eyes widened impossibly, shimmering with disbelief, matching with the faint gasp of shocked bafflement she uttered.
She was stunned. Such power, so much energy... and it was wielded by a teen, a boy couldn't older than eighteen. He was sat down onto the ground beside to one redhead girl... with vaguely familiar features. She perused to the young man while he talked about something -she was dying for listening, but she wasn't about of eavesdropping- and lowered his head. His expression was downcast and darkened in its upper half by long bangs of hair. Jean frowned, stricken for the next weirdness in that complex puzzle. He sported an uncanny likeness to Scott. His jaw, his nose, his cheekbones, his eyebrows... He was identical.
With a start the boy rose abruptly his chin up, and searched frantically everywhere with startled eyes. She understood quickly that he had detected some presence near. And she understood likewise that he hadn't spotted her. With all his unparalleled potential, he was very inexpert.
She chose to introduce to herself then. There was no point in getting him nervous and distrustful.
Boy?
Who is here? A pause. WHO IS HERE?
Calm down. I'm not an enemy or an attacker, but I'll not lower my defenses if you don't calm down
WHO ARE YOU?
It had been amazingly hostile. Understandable. The boy couldn't have led an easy, carefree life Do you promise calm down first?
I promise await your explanation BEFORE attacking
A sigh I suppose it's all I can hope for She dissolved her barriers of invisibility, standing in plain sight. She took care of donning an unthreatening form My name is Jean Grey
He boy gaped in awe. She smiled. He was liable to wait for a fearsome and horrendous assailant, no a beautiful redhead woman. Moreover she was purposely wearing a cloak of kindness and nearly motherly loveliness. A simple trick, but he was falling for it.
See? I'm not hostile. If I was you had sensed my intentions for now
I'm Nate Grey. Who are you?
Jean blinked. Grey? What curious coincidence. Albeit now she was giving him a second glance, had similarities between his psi-signature and hers own. Maybe the boy was a long-time lost half-brother... But she didn't imagine to her father cheating to her mother although she held fewer bits of her infancy.
Never mind. It was irrelevant right now.
He was looking at her suspiciously again Are you an Apocalypse agent?
He seemed ready to blast her in the oblivion if the answer was affirmative. No. I'm an undercover Resistance's member. I belong to the X-Men but I'm pretending siding with him to save lives
She folded the shields guarding her memory, leaving him taking peeks into. He submerged into her remembrances with excessive roughness and haste, giving her an unpleasant feeling. Nevertheless she let him wade through to corroborate her words. Then she threw him out and locked off her mind.
Are you convinced now?
Yes Nate answered, befuddled and worried about that woman capable of rejecting her probes. What do you want from me?
Help you in exchange of your help Jean stated. Apocalypse has noticed of you and has sent his vermin to recruit you or kill you. I'm sure of you are able of facing his troops but they won't be naive Infinites precisely. No, he'll send bloodthirsty hellhounds, duly geared and prepared to deal with you
She paused to allow the implications settled on his mind. I can see your power. It's amazing. However you are talent without experience. Perhaps you can defy to Nur but you lack of knowledge and training to defeat him. I'm more experienced; I can teach you. I can sense your hatred for Apocalypse. We can work together to destroy him once and for all
He curled his lips as if he mulled something. A reflection, a reverie, a pondering. He had taken seriously her proposal and was meditating about it. Jean felt cheered up and soaring in joy.
Suddenly a violent blizzard picked up her body and flung her far away, tossing her and beating her with impressive force. She struggled to overwhelm the stream, to cope with it without losing the conscience and returning with Nate. However the path to the Nate's mind was shut off and blocked with such strength the backlash hit her. Jean shrieked, eliciting a hurt cry coursed the astral plane and echoed throughout it. Pained, singed and tattered, she turned around and started the way back. She felt excruciating hurt in more ways than one, appallingly defeated and crushed in spirit and soul.
And in anywhere she believed listening to the chuckling, haughty and biting Sinister's laughter.
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Later on that day.
Cyclops banged open the door with one well placed kick and stormed into the rec. room. "Surprise inspection!" He roared.
The soldiers stopped momentarily of slackening and twisted to gape at shock the entrance of the High Prelate. Cyclops glared with disgusted annoy the slowness and awkwardness of theirs reactions. What silly waste of time. It was a surprise they were fit to belong to the army, and even bigger surprise they were able of holding correctly a weapon. And they had the gall of gloating of genetic superiority. They were the self-appointed strong ones, but if he had the authority they would have been labeled them like genetic dead ends and mailed to the mines long ago. He wondered often because the X-Men didn't provoke a highest toll.
"Is that way of greeting to your superior?" He grated with deceitfully soft voice. "Stand at attention now!"
His throaty bellow stirred to all in motion. The soldiers were started and startled with his imperious, enraged voice, and scrambled for get in a row hastily.
He paced in circles as a roaming beast, eyeing them thoughtfully. Scott stopped in front of the first and looked over him with an unreadable, inquisitive expression. He knew better than nobody how unsettling could turn out his aloof countenance, so silent and emotionless and with the visor masking his eyes. Neither of them could tell what he was thinking or what he intended. And he used unashamedly that advantage so many times as he might, like any good general.
"Your armor is a mess" He pointed with disdain, poking an accusing finger on an oily stain and tracing a line of green-on-black with the fingertip. "Clean it. I want being able of eating on it."
He whirled to the next without waiting for the reply. "You! Give me your rifle!" With a brusque gesture he snatched it and checked the weapon. "The barrel doesn't turn smoothly, the pipe is stuck, it isn't loaded and above all the ammo is outdated! Do you take care of your own weapon ever?"
He shoved the rifle back on his hands and headed for the third. "You! Your uniform is wrinkled! And you!" He turned to the fourth, sniffing disgustedly. "How long has been since the last time your walked in a shower? This is the example we are supposed to offer of the Apocalypse army? A group of uneducated pigs incapable of staying away of the sewers?"
He spun brusquely and blasted to one soldier, crushing him against the wall with the devastating power of his force beams. Afterwards he stomped towards the almost knocked-out trooper and hoisted him to his eye level with easiness. His hammering fist struck his face and crunched his jaw.
He whirled towards the rest with simmering fury shining red on his visor. "Demeaning words are my punishment to the untidiness and negligence! Raw violence is my punishment to the disrespect! Anybody else wants spouting another statement under the mistaken assumption of I shan't hear?"
The entire group backed down in sheer fear, all understanding he was edgy and shouldn't be pushed. Scott relaxed. "Fine" He huffed, masking his inward and broad grin.
Very soon he was checking to each soldier and finding motives to punish him or her or give an unpleasant task to keep him or her occupied. He knew he could easily make up hundreds of good excuses to keep to the Infinites out of the way when he broke out a prisoner in the midnight. Luckily Alex was out; on the contrary this wouldn't turn out so easy should he deal with him.
No doubt his little brother was now torturing yet another prisoner.
Fine. He'd take care of that trouble later. McCoy was his next reluctant stop.
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McCoy faced to his new experiment with a lopsided glance. His long clawed finger skimmed briefly the surface of a button, enjoying with the fear he acknowledge in his prey's eyes, a fear she wrestled to hide.
He clicked the button. Bursts of crackling electricity were heard along with a cry of excruciating pain.
McCoy turned off the energy, and stared at his toy. He was very pleased and delighted of having elicited more sweet shrieks out of her.
Tabitha Smith was shackled, tied and bounded to a grotesque framework, with her back bent along a weird table resembled a medieval torture horse. Thick silvery cables coiled around her limbs and trunk and metal bands held hers body on its place. Her hands, feet and head were encased in strange devices, which were electronic handcuffs latched on to the main machine with wires. Her clothes were torn and smoking.
Beast rotated gleefully a lever. With a low whir the helmet attached to her head clicked open, leaving exposed her bruised and bloody face.
He grinned.
"Are you ready and eager to collaborate, dear Miss Smith? Or are you determined to make this worst to yourself yet?"
Tabitha shook her head to get ridden of the numbing dizziness, and spat a droplet of blood. A salty-flavored moistness covered and smeared her lips. Likely she had bitten them during her convulsions.
She hurled to her captor a smoldering glare of unquenchable, burning hatred. She'd be cursed if she let them break her. And she'd be twice-cursed if she displayed fear, apprehension, cowardliness or reluctance. She refused give him that appealing satisfaction.
Pride matters aside she knew her only way-out in that situation was endure the torture. She couldn't tell them anything because her meager chances of fleeing would vanish as smoke then. If she shut up her mouth they wouldn't be able set a trap to him, and if she survived perhaps he would rescue her.
"F-fuck you, blue monkey." She grated, wishing her voice showed greater strength and courage.
He arched his brows. If someone judged only for the outward signs of sorrow and regret, that person would think he was sad after all. But Tabitha knew better that that, and she was absolutely aware of he was appealed of going on.
"I never found the necessity or the interest in engaging to myself in such onanist practices, miss Smith. I'm a genius working. My destine is recreating the nature, and I've no time or curiosity for inanities"
"And my hurtful screams are way more erotic, right?" She nearly shouted, an unmistakable sign of the partial return of her forces and her smart-ass, loud-mouthed wit. "You are sick, McCoy. You suck!"
He wiggled a finger with a mocking smirk tugging upwards his lips. "Such foul language to one child. Your slurs and offenses have upon me the effect of a sword upon the water. Less, in fact. And since you are unusually resistant to the procedure and my devices can't for unknown reasons break into your mindshields, I'm pushed to use the old-fashioned method. Brain surgery."
His long-nailed claw grabbed determinedly an odd laser gun with a saw or scalpel instead pipe. The edge's reflect flashed on the Tabitha's eyes, and the helpless girl writhed unwillingly. A light shone in his golden eyes then, and she knew the bastard had found the horror gleaming on her bulged eyeballs.
His forefinger brushed dissmissively the trigger while he approached toward her with slow, steady steps. Suddenly he halted his progress. He had felt someone looming behind him.
A threatening, towering shadow. Fearsome and furious.
A hand dropped on his shoulder. The grip was of steel, and the gauntlet weighed heavily on him.
"Stop this, McCoy. Now."
The voice was painfully familiar, and the tone didn't brook argument. However, Beast craned his neck to spare him a defying stare.
Regarding his roaring face, twisted with wrath, it wasn't a good idea.
"It's enough, McCoy. You are violating a direct order. No genetic experiments while is negotiated the Kelly Pact." Scott seethed. His jaws ground with every syllable.
Beast disentangled to himself out of Cyclops' grip and raised his chin up. "Your brother solicited I performed a thorough cross-examination in the witness of the past flight."
"This isn't interrogatory. It's torture. Plain and simply torture." Scott spat, ignoring the haughty McCoy's tongue. "We are on the brink of a world war NOBODY can win. And this type of behavior jeopardizes our last possibility of peace!"
Beast sneered contemptuously. All over his face were plainly written annoy and impatience. "You are such naive, Summers. Apocalypse wants nothing with the Human Council. He is merely placating them while awaits his chance to annihilate them once and for all."
While Beast spelt those words he felt a sudden fury sparking in him, inflaming him. He sensed the weight of the last months of delays, frustrations, hindrances, intrusions and accusations. He sensed its bulk, the heavy burden sat on his chest, suffocating him, oppressing him. He began to pace around, gesturing exaggeratedly and protesting loudly, oblivious to the scornful and less than pleased Cyclops' leer.
"I refuse cease my work due to a vain pretense of reconciliation with the Human Council! Speaking exponentially, my chore is far more important than this diplomatic charade!" He threw up his arms. "With Sinister away, I shall be the one will father the next generation of mutants!"
Scott nodded, giving him a sidelong glance. "You're right in one thing at least. Sinister isn't here..."
He raised his gloved fist, and his forefinger pressed a button of his golden gauntlet. "... And I'm in charge!"
Glass lenses slid away his eyes, stopping of containing the unstoppable energy flowing from his eyeballs. Free of the barrier obstructing the path, twin scarlet beams erupted out his pupils, seared the air few inches above Beast's head, and pummeled in the machinery. The lasers drilled the metal like hot butter, and pieces of metallic garbage and shredded shrapnel rained among the crackles of sparks.
Beast barely had ducked of the blast, and stared horrified and agape at the massive destruction. He stayed shrunk on the floor, well aware of having overstepped his boundaries with the ruthless Prelate Summers.
Scott faced him with clenched fists and a booming voice. "I'm in charge of the pens! Defy me again, and I'll close your mouth forever! Is that clear?"
The red glass of the visor glowed with burning red, and Cyclops fixed to Beast with a glare nearly so deadly as his own beams. That incensed, smoldering glare menaced with to shoot his force blasts and to blow up his head if he questioned him minimally ever again. Most likely he was looking forward to it or begging for one excuse. The blue-furred mutant cringed, cowed and bottomless scared.
"Y-yes, sir. Understood."
No likely, Scott thought. But he was warier, quieter and more responsive for the current moment. And It would have to do this time. He would need return later on, but that intimidation was enough by now.
He spun around and strode towards the door without sparing him the briefest glance. "Great. Now bring back that girl to the pens. And take care of nothing bad happens her during the transfer, or I shall be back."
To reinforce his point, he turned sideways and shot a last dirty glare.
Unbeknownst to him, the girl was still staring him, and nailing her absorbed bluish eyes in him. And particularly in the hooded red glow of his face.
She didn't know if was fear, hope or realization what was nestling within her chest then.
*********************************************************************************
Steam and mist enveloped his frame.
Hot rain drenched and licked his sore muscles.
Warm droplets slid along his skin, washing over the filthy grime.
He loved showering, the feeling of the tepid water hammering smoothly his hide and stroking him with motherly embrace. Raindrops splashed his eyelids, free for once of the cursed, fucking, hateful shades.
He was virtually blind when he showered. He couldn't obviously wet his glasses with water or cloud them with vapor, so he was stripped and bare of them. It was fine for him. He hated them with frenzied passion.
However he didn't bear close his eyes. Nightmares chased him whenever he did.
He was alone amidst the darkness, standing on the top of a mountain of cadavers. Suddenly the mount shook and stirred, and the dead ones arose. A legion of corpses advanced towards him with accusing stares in theirs hollow eyesockets, and wailing bloodcurdling moans with theirs toothless and bloodied mouths. And leading them was Jean, her body naked and putrefied and with bullets riddling it. With a howl of 'Murder!' she picked a spear and imbedded him in his heart. He screamed but it wasn't of use.
He was in the bottom of a well, floating in black, murky waters, with no hope of escaping. Glorious daylight shimmered unreachable on the outside. Suddenly Jean peeped her head in the pit, gasped and stretched her hand to get him. Desperate, he reciprocated and tried reaching for her arm. Right when he was brushing her fingertips, touching his salvation, the waters in the pitfall boiled and began to swirl in a whirlpool. Suddenly a scrawny arm with clawed fingers and rotten flesh emerged out of the swampy mud and clung to his wrist. Dozens of pale and stinking zombies sprang out of the sludge and clung to his body, dragging him to the bottom to drown him. And in theirs faces he saw everyone he had slaughtered.
He wished opening his eyes, confirming they were just bad dreams and resting with that reassurance. But he couldn't, as well as he couldn't weep either. His blasts destroyed the tears. They denied him the least glimpse of humanity.
Outside of the shower Jean was tying the straps of the boots, trying very hard no look at the shadowed silhouette her sparkling pupils made out through the translucent glass. She labored furiously with her footwear, willing to herself to think about the task of that night, but her eyes insisted in averting towards the door. She scolded to herself, but she couldn't help ogle to his figure. Scott was really slim. He sported an athletic built, tall and slender. There was nothing fat in him, taut and soft skin covering tightly muscles exquisitely shaped...
She punched repeatedly in her temples to banish the naughty thoughts and focused on her outfit. She had showered before than him and was now putting the final touches to her uniform while he doused his body.
He was taking a long time, longer than usual. Nevertheless she knew what he was doing in that cubicle. What he was thinking about. What he was reflecting in. He did always the same thing. Lock in the bathroom and stare his image reflected on a mirror. Watch his skin through a red filter and see the blood staining his body in that color. Wash and scrub his hide until it truly turned red. Try desperately washing the evil taint, erasing the foul stench, cleansing his soul.
She could tell him it would never work.
The stain would never go away. The wound was so deeply carved with red-hot steel, so etched within him, he ignored how live without it. It had become part of him. Drench his hide and after scrubbing it fiercely with a towel wouldn't purify the inner wrongness he felt. He needed something else.
The drumming of the raindrops on the tiles ceased gradually. The swish of the door sliding open replaced it. Scott Summers stepped out of the bathroom, his body barely draped with a wide towel, and seeming as grim and forlorn as always. She peeked at him one split-second and turned, hiding the heat reddened her cheeks. That cloth was clinging loosely to his body, concealing the most interesting parts.
Scott picked up his clothes, determinedly looking away of Jean. She used to get nervous when he emerged out of the shower like that, but he pretended no realizing. What if she could possibly feel physical attraction? It didn't mean she was willing giving him something he couldn't, neither would ask for. She couldn't love him. She regarded him like a man worth of redemption but she couldn't possibly love to a bloodied butcher, he thought plaintively.
Right?
Be that as it may he never questioned and she never volunteered anything. He wondered sometimes if they would become sincere and real with each other some day ever. Still they could keep on with the pretense while the unspoken silence pact went on.
Their lives were filled with pretenses and masks. And mortifying as it was, thus the balance was kept.
He dressed his tight suit, zipping up the fasteners. The kevlar fit neatly to his skin, and the light gleamed on the ripples. He snatched armor pieces and clicked them along his body. He tied firmly the straps of the boots and slid his gloves on his hands easily. They cracked when he flexed them experimentally. He raised his cloak and tied it around his shoulders. His hands drew up the cowl, darkening his features in darkness.
He stared at Jean. She was fastening the drawstring of her hood. She tightened the knot, and parted fiery red bangs away her temples, before pulling up the cowl. He noticed idly that some locks insisted on keeping glued on her forehead. She had showered before than him but seemingly her hair wasn't fully dry.
"Are you ready already?" He hushed with his hoarse voice.
"Yes." She muttered back. "Let's go."
He nodded, cracking his knuckles ominously. Both headed at the doorway with resolution, a resolution turned into extreme caution when they shut silently the room and strode gingerly out of that shelter. Thick darkness and choking silence pervaded the room after of their departure.
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Meanwhile...
"Have you understood your orders then?"
"Yes, sir" Northstar replied with the same quickness he used in all his actions. "Tonight we shall patrol the East sector, near of the riverbank."
"Perfect. Dismissed."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Aurora raised a hesitant, wavering hand.
"Granted. What is the matter now?"
"Does one particular motive exist to switch the shifts? It isn't I have any trouble with the orders" She rushed promptly in adding "but I'd like knowing what we are looking forward to."
A disturbing smirk beamed in Alex lips, showing his two rows of needle-sharp, shark-like teeth. "You'll see."
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Across the ocean the wind streamed with relentless howls along the England shoreline.
It pushed violently the roaring waves against the bottom of the steep cliffs where they battered mercilessly the rocky walls and the spikes of craggy stony, bursting in explosions of water droplets and gleaming seafoam. Up of the sheer cliffwalls overlooking the ocean, the gale swept in ripples the grass of the sloped plains and the gravel of the ledges.
The unexpected roar of an engine starting disrupted the tranquillity of the lone precipice with its loud buzz.
Betsy Braddock sighed in relief when she heard the rumble of the motor and saw the propeller beginning its unceasing rotation. She was about of throwing the towel after the first failed tries. That scrap of garbage maybe had been used in 1940 during the Battle of Britain, and wasn't in good condition to fly, but she had to try. Thus she held the throttle firmly and led the aircraft towards the wild sea.
A rough voice yelled her codename behind her. Betsy tilted her head to look back, and peered at the black and short figure riding a motorbike.
Great. He had followed her. She bumped the throttle and the plane began its downward path.
"Psylocke!" His voice echoed beyond of the uproar of the wind. "I can't let you fly to America to warn them what is in way!" He left behind the bike and sprinted towards her downhill, leaping agilely amidst the boulders of the terrain.
"Cool. I can't let you go through with this" She stated, and the flight dashed towards the abrupt and looming ravine. Fly and live or crash down and die. All would be decided in one second's span.
"Damn it, Betsy! This is the war! It's a matter of killing or getting killed!" He screamed.
"You are crazy, Logan" She spat acidly. "Do you think seriously those nukes will kill only to Apocalypse and his Infinites? What makes you think the hundreds of millions of innocents left in America will remain untouched? You intend killing to the enemy and the victim alike. Millions of lives sacrificed, every our partners and comrades in America, the living wraiths in the pens... they will must die so you and the Council can tell the last word in this war!"
A bellow of indignation erupted out of her throat while the aircraft's wheels left down the firm ground and the plane performed a descending loop, rushing towards the raging waters.
"This is the beginning of a descent to the Hell, Weapon-X! And I refuse to allow it! I'm going to America to warn to Magneto and even to your dear-but-expendable Jean! And if you want stopping me, kill me!"
A stream of chilled frostbite coursed along the Logan's blood vessels when he heard her poisoned, terminating words. However he would never know what he would have done afterwards, since a sparkling purple flare engulfed and enveloped his frame. She had snatched him telekinetically.
Betsy clutched the throttle with a vice-like grip and pulled it in her to raise the nose. The old junk chimed and quivered, but it skimmed over the swirling waters, dodging the battering waves, and it flew upward drawing a perfect curl. Betsy let out an exultant shout of victory.
When the flight was upside down, she expelled out to Logan, relinquishing her telekinetic clutch. He dropped heavily on the unforgiving cliff's ground with a thud.
Slowly, arduously, Logan straightened to himself. Externally his scars seemed awful, with the hair singed and the flesh partially charred and cooked. However his inner wounds were far worst. He gazed piercingly at the colorful, tiny plane soaring towards the dusk. An infinitesimal speck in the bright orange of the dying sun. His hypersensitive ears could hear still the shouts of victory and freedom of the British ninja.
And he was unsure in his soul whether he was sorrowful or glad of her escapement.
With lethargic slowness the glowing disk sank in the deep ocean, a blaze of impossibly glowing red and orange. Upward a blanket of indigo shrouded the sky. As the last vestiges of golden sunlight faded, a starry path of billions of silvery dots spotted the black canvas of the sky, twinkling with titillating shine.
Logan remained sat long time on the top of the hill facing the ebony waters. Slowly, mutely, he rose up and started to walk towards his discarded motorbike.
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End of Part Four
In the next chapter, Scott and Jean are exposed. Will Havok be able of murdering to Scott? Besides, we see again to the X-Men, and Nate Grey makes his arrival in the pens.