February 2, 2002

Mystique looked up, her pale eyes feral. Stark watched her with a smug grin from the other side of the bars.

"I see you've regained consciousness," Stark said, smiling.

Mystique said nothing.

"Sneak in once, shame on you," Stark said. "Sneak in twice, shame on me."

Her dark face hardened in an expression of cold contempt.

"I do appreciate your services, though I doubt I can afford them," Stark went on, his charm impenetrable. "You are improving my security with each attempt. I've half a mind to let you go and see what else you come up with."

In the space of an excited heartbeat her features lengthened, her hair coiled and twisted like a live thing, her skin's color rippled and shifted, and her shoulders broadened. Stark saw himself sitting on the bunk.

They both smiled the same carefree charm at each other.

"Ah," the Stark outside the cell said, "but I have the button."

He pushed a button on the side of the cell door, and a low frequency pulse rippled through the cell. Mystique let out an agonized cry and slumped to the floor, herself once more.

"Every armor," Stark said, "has its gaps."

Mystique glared at his back as he walked away.

xXx

Garrett sat on the bunk, slowly raising and lowering his arm. He just thought about his hand moving; his elbow shifted, his wrist shifted, his hand raised. With the merest thought, he caused his fingers to clench into a fist, then relax.

Cybers. His expression shifted with a thought. He heard Stark approach down the hallway; no one else had that crisp swagger. Garrett slowly stood, and faced the door. He tried on a smile.

Stark strolled in. "Garrett, you're looking positively reconstituted."

"Thank you, sir," Garrett said.

"How do you feel?" Stark asked.

"I don't feel much," Garrett replied with a bulky shrug. "Plastic arms, plastic legs, plastic torso, plastic skull. Not much of me left."

"About eight percent," Stark said, his smile unwavering. "Unbelieveable. You must be uniquely suited, to be so heavily cybered and not just snap."

"Thank you sir," Garrett muttered.

"At least you still have your mind," Stark chirped. "That is more than some people in flesh bodies can claim."

"Yes," Garrett nodded.

"Now Garrett," Stark said with his indefatigable smile, "I'm expecting some visitors tonight, of the corporate espionage variety. If you'd be so good as to stay in your room until it blows over, I'd be much obliged." His smile widened. "Otherwise I'd have to think that your whole reason in coming to me was an elaborate plot courtesy of Nick Fury."

"No sir," Garrett said, shaking his head. "I'm through with those losers. They left me to die in the swamp. If it wasn't for you, I'd be done."

"Let's both try our best to remember that with no regrets," Stark said, mirth dancing behind his eyes. He slapped Garrett's shoulder. "Rest well, my large friend. Tomorrow is a new day."

Garrett watched him go.

"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, "is a new day."

xXx

"You heard me," Stark said to his com unit as he strolled down the hallways in the sub-basement of Stark International's warehouse and laboratory complex. "Reduce the night shift to a skeleton crew."

"But the reports of attempted break ins tonight," Ms. Potts protest. "Surely—"

"Hm," Stark interrupted. "I suppose I could let my well trained security agents meet their demise facing foes they cannot stop. But do you have any idea what insurance would run me? Not to mention severance pay for those that were, well, severed. Wergild is a harsh force in the twenty first century."

"Yes sir," Potts said, her voice subdued.

"And," Stark added, "you're thinking that Mr. Stark just wants to play with his new toy, aren't you."

"Yes sir," Potts said.

"You're right, my dear," he agreed, his smile growing to unbearable proportions. "You're absolutely right."

He snapped the com off and began working through the elaborate protocols between himself and his private laboratory. He headed in to the work station where he developed the least cost effective, most cutting edge designs. He smiled to himself as he considered the possibility that this station produced the clearest expressions of his genius.

"My toy indeed," Stark said, satisfaction suffusing his expression.

Well, that and the three platoons of special weapons teams designed to keep his intruders from leaving alive, should it come to that.

"Spies check in," Stark chuckled to himself, "but they don't check out."

xXx

Creed shrugged and yanked at the armored suit he wore. "Me in armor," he growled. "Ridiculous." He looked down the long smokestack.

Grinned.

Jumped.

Even at the top of the chimney, he could feel the intense heat through the suit. As he dropped down towards the incinerator it was as though he was opening an oven. The suit began to melt halfway down the chimney, and when he crushed into the searing flame of the incinerator itself, the suit began to sag off. Blisters bloomed across his flesh; he dared not touch the walls.

The door was another matter.

Gathering every ounce of balance and strength he possessed, he lashed out at the inside of the door to the incinerator. It tore open, sending its latch zipping across the room to rebound from the far wall as Creed tumbled out of the intolerable heat, his flesh searing and burning.

He rapidly peeled the remains of the armored suit off, and he stood in his dark bodyglove, smoking and smoldering in the dim room. He reached over and turned the incinerator off. Smiled. Stepped over the slag of his armor. Far as he could tell, no alarms. Imagine; they didn't expect people to come in that way.

"Should put a doorbell in there," he muttered to himself with a grin. "So I wouldn't have to knock."

He prowled down the hallway, wary and alert and silent.

xXx

The face through the armored window was lean and dark and feral, surrounded by a halo of silky iridescent hair. Upside down. As the soldier's eyes widened, the spy's eyes narrowed; the soldier spun on his heel and ran for the door, clawing at his radio.

A muffled crack, and in the haze of smoke it came at him. He whipped his rifle up, but it was torn from his grip by something he did not see, then the lithe spy hopped up over him, and he felt a two-toed foot swiftly and expertly grip his windpipe.

He drew his knife with a rasp of steel on steel, but the other foot caught his wrist. His pulse pounded in his temples for a few moments as he struggled, then his consciousness ebbed.

Trespasser shifted his grip on the light fixture, glancing this way and that, then contracted the muscles in his torso and hauled the unconscious guard up to his perch. His tail teased the guard's handcuffs free of his belt, and the Trespasser handcuffed the guard's belt to the fixture's support.

Leaving the unconscious man hanging well above line of sight, Trespasser stealthed in further.

xXx

Peter Parker stood in the shadow of a warehouse, looking across the street and down the block at the entry to a warehouse. Not just any warehouse.

If it was a regular warehouse, it wouldn't need the massive fence topped with loops of vicious barbed wire. Wouldn't need the closed circuit security system along with guards toting submachine guns. Wouldn't need the space, and definitely wouldn't be the back door to Stark International's complex.

Peter pulled the creased note out of his pocket and opened it for the hundredth time.

Hey Junior,

Good times, good memories. Hey, I'm in town.

If you want to drop by, I'm at 148 Bleeker Circle.

Having a party Saturday night. Can't miss it.

Costume party, your fave.

Be there or be square

And that was all. The note was on Stark International letterhead, scrawled in an uncouth hand. Peter was uneasy. The note found him at home, through the United States Postal Service, so whoever sent it knew him. Going through the mail system had denuded it of clues that would tell him more.

He wasn't nearly stupid enough to let curiosity lure him into breaking and entering. No way. Nothing to gain, everything to lose.

But if it was Logan, cloak and dagger wasn't his style.

No. Not a chance. No way. Not going in.

A truck rumbled past headed into the complex.

Peter couldn't even fool himself. In a few quick motions he was out of his clothes and stripped down to the mesh that clung to him like a second skin. He tugged his hood over his face and moved. He dropped to his fingertips and toes and almost slithered up to the truck. He bounced up from that position, flipping upside down and tugging himself sideways, clinging to the underside of the truck.

"This is filthy," he muttered. "Reminds me of a school bus seat."

The guards searched the truck, then waved them in. Peter dropped off and rolled up the wall, coming to a rest crouched in a corner of the ceiling. A quick crawl and he was through the doors before they rumbled shut; he was in the motor pool for the complex.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself. "This is exercising? Just because I don't have school tomorrow…" He gave up and shook his head. "The folly of youth."

He scampered along the ceiling and slipped deeper in, easily evading the views of the cameras.

xXx

Stark stood facing the faceless armor. He saw the empty eyes, the smooth featureless mask. It might as well be a charming smile. He reached out and reverently touched the steel, forgetting about the microfilters, the modulation integrators, the polymers and fibric lifters, the lens flares and the feedback dampeners, the tiny joints and the gyroscoptics.

"I am Narcissus," whispered Stark, "and you are my mirror." He took a deep breath. "Almost time. Almost."

The lights flickered and went out. A moment later, dim red backups glowed to life.

Emergency power cast Anthony Stark in a whole different light.

"Now," he breathed. He snapped the main restraint on the armor to the off position. "Now, my darling."

Stark suited up.

xXx

Garrett snarled to himself as his eyes rolled back. His arm was wide open, wires leading from his wrist to the wall socket where he had torn the panel off to get at the fiberoptic access. His consciousness was moving with obscene speed, parts of his skull chatting with the Stark International security system.

"Security grid beta, off. Security grid alpha, off. External alarm, disengaged." Garrett slapped back into his body and staggered, raising his good hand to his head.

"Ow," he muttered. He flexed, and the wires retracted into his arm, the flesh snapping shut. He stumbled into the hallway.

Tymaz Nine. Not far now. Almost there. He smiled.

The lights were dull red. He heard guards running down the corridor towards him. He pressed himself against the wall by the corner. Two guards ran into view, and he loomed over them.

Before they could react he was moving; his palms shot out and smacked into their helmets. Their heads snapped back and they were airborne, but their spines held.

Garrett bent down over them and took a radio as well as both machine guns.

Headed deeper in.

xXx

"Hiya babe," Creed leered through the bars.

"Creed," Mystique said, suddenly breathless. "Are you here to kill me? Or get me out?"

"I'm on leave," Creed replied with a grin. "I'm here on my own recognizance. I think that's the word they used."

"Ah," Mystique said. "Say no more."

"So do I just rip this thingy off?" he asked, gesturing at the electronic panel next to the high tech cell.

"No," Mystique said quickly. "No, don't touch that. They're trapped."

The power suddenly stuttered and died. After a moment of pitch darkness, the emergency power flickered on, and red lights glowed to life.

The cell's energy grid snapped off.

"Now rip the thingy off," Mystique said.

"You got it," Creed said, and he promptly tore the panel out of the wall.

A moment later they were together in the hallway. Mystique gave Creed a quick hug. "Now," she said with a smile that made her teeth gleam red in the emergency lighting, "Let's pick up Tymaz Nine on the way out."

"Uh," Creed said, shifting uneasily. "I just came for you."

"And we're on our way out," she said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. "We'll just swing through the lab. We're in Beta Zone, and Tymaz Nine is in the Alpha Zone, just one level down."

"No way," Creed said, shaking his head and gesturing. "We're going. Now."

"You're saying 'no' to me?" she said, settling to one side, aiming a sultry look at the giant.

"Uh," he said. "Uh, let's swing through the lab on the way out."

She dazzled him with a smile. "That's the Creed I remember."

They wasted no more time.

xXx

Peter clung to the ceiling looking at the blast door. "Yeah, that's magnetically sealed," he muttered to himself. "Well, looks like the end of the line. I gave it a shot, and I'll just be on my way."

The lights flickered and went out. With a dull click, something gave in the bulkhead. Then dull red lights glowed on.

Experimentally, without really wanting to know, Peter pushed gently on the bulkhead.

It swung open.

"Who am I to defy fate," he muttered, and with that he scooted through the portal and deeper into the complex.

xXx

Trespasser glanced over the glowing bank of screens. He saw the Alpha Omega camera; the end in the beginning. Alpha level, Omega clearance. He smiled.

Then he disappeared in a muffled crack and a billowing haze of brimstone.

Kurt stood in the circle of light, looking at the laboratory table adapted to showcase a cylinder, a round tube the size of a film canister. Down one side it read "Stark International" and down the other it read "Tymaz Nine".

Trespasser smiled, revealing small even white teeth and pointed canines. He pulled a small sphere out of his belt and tossed it.

The sphere detonated with a brilliant flash, and the electric systems around the table flared and died. The pulse grenade cleared the way. Trespasser moved to claim his prize.

"Drop it, fuzzball," growled a voice from the doorway, fifty feet away. Trespasser turned to see a hulking brute and a refined woman.

He faced them. "The Project had their shot at Tymaz Nine," he said in his hypnotizing Romany German accent. "Your claim is over."

"Touch that canister and your claim is gonna be over," Creed growled. He moved forward, fast and low.

Trespasser smiled at them curiously, then plucked the canister from its cradle. A muffled crack—

Trespasser screamed, dropping on his back, twitching. Creed pulled up short, and Mystique moved to the shadows.

"What the hell?" Creed said.

"Simple," came a voice from the shadows, flowing towards Creed from every direction. "The pulse-shielded mass displacement system detected a potential rapid mass shift and unleashed enough volts to singe his hair and knock him cold."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't like you," Creed said, crouching for battle. "Come on out and we'll see if I'm right."

"Cover me," Mystique said softly. She glanced around and catfooted up to the canister where it had rolled from Trespasser's senseless fingers. With a smile she knelt to pick it up—

The low frequency pulse was strong enough to vibrate in Creed's teeth. Mystique thrashed over to her back and writhed, making a peculiar squalling. The pulse ended, and she lay unmoving.

"Oho," Creed muttered. "Dirty pool."

"Controlled molecular instability can be a two edged sword," the voice said, amused.

"Yeah, my molecules are stable, and my mass aint goin anywhere I don't want it to," Creed said, stepping forward, his boots thudding on the floor. He crouched over the canister and glanced into the shadows. The whole damn place smelled like a factory showroom floor. "Whatcha got for me?"

A gleaming armored figure stepped out of the shadows, not twenty feet away.

"Raw force."

Creed's face twisted into a smile.

"Now we're talkin the same language," he said. "Bring it."