The Protector Saga Part I:
A New Beginning
Storm Clouds"Jake. Is that short for Jacob?"
"Is it Bobby?" The young man looked across the table to see the blonde nod his head. "No. It's Jackson. Jackson Harland Ayers. But all my friends call me Jake." He turned his attention to the rest of the table, and focused his gaze near the far end. He was so lost in what he was looking at that he didn't hear what Bobby asked him.
"What?"
"What kind of sports do you like," Bobby repeated. Sitting across from Jake, he didn't have the best view of what he'd been looking at. But, he knew well enough who was sitting in that direction. He seemed to be staring in Jean's direction. "You know," Bobby whispered, noticing the direction of Jake's looks, "it's not a good idea to be looking at Jean like that."
"Which one is Jean?"
"The red-head."
Jake looked at Bobby, his eyebrow raised. "I ain't lookin' at the red-head." I'm lookin' at the one with purple hair. What's her name?
"You're a telepath, huh?" That's Betsy. Betsy Braddock. That's not really her real body-
It's alright, you don't have to explain it. I can get it from you later on.
Okay.
And why shouldn't I look at Jean, out of curiosity?
The guy sitting next to her is her husband. Images of the man fighting a gigantic robot suddenly flooded Jake's mind, followed by images of him in less than savory moods.
"I see," Jake said, almost matter-of-factly. "What was your question, again?"
"I asked you what kind of sports you like."
Jake raised his finger for a moment; he was had just eaten a mouthful of meatloaf, sour cream and garlic flavored potatoes, and creamed corn. "Well," he said, swallowing his food, "let me see. Baseball's boring as hell, and as far as I'm concerned, isn't even a sport. Soccer's almost as boring as baseball is to watch, but it's not bad to play. Football is all right, though I don't understand what things like "first and ten" mean. But, the greatest sport in the world is ice hockey.
"Why do you say that," Bobby asked, genuinely curious.
"Well, number one, it's the only sport in the world where you can get into a fight with someone from the other team and not get thrown out of the game. Number two you have to respect those guys. I mean, these guys are tougher than what most guys can even imagine. I saw one guy get hit in the face by a puck, and was out back in the game in maybe ten minutes. And, you gotta remember that those things are about a pound of hard rubber traveling anywhere from seventy to ninety miles per hour. And, dude, I once saw this guy get his face cut by a skate. He was back on the ice in fifteen minutes, without a face mask."
"So, you really like hockey, huh?"
"Yeah," Jake said, absentmindedly. He was looking at Psylocke again. Or, maybe it is more like staring, Bobby thought. Betsy and Jake looked at each other, seemingly lost for a moment. Then, suddenly, they looked away, both blushing.
It would be several days before either Betsy or Jake would be able to talk to the other. Meanwhile, they had both been cursing themselves: Betsy for acting as an infatuated schoolgirl, and Jake for acting like a shy, hormone-driven kid. Though neither of them would say it, when they saw each other, each of them had a vision. Jake had seen her as the woman in a dream of his. It was, in fact, the same dream that kept recurring in Betsy's sleep. Instead of seeing her as the Psylocke version of Elizabeth Braddock, he saw her as her original form, the English Elizabeth Braddock. She, however, saw him as the man in her dream. He was not Jake Ayers, victim of a horrible car accident, but rather a great fighter, grim-faced with a grave light in his eyes.
Despite the fact that they had gotten off to a slow start, they began dating less than a week after he arrived. If love at first site had ever occurred, it was with them. Though they did not know it at the time, they were soul mates. They were destined to be together.
Upstate New York, Two weeks laterThere was no moon out, and for that, Joseph Whitefeather felt fortunate. Until recently, he had been in the Apache reservation where he had grown up in New Mexico. There, he had been tending to his father, who had been dying of cancer. He had been sitting next to his father as he died, and had stayed for his subsequent burial. He had remained to console his mother and younger sister. After over a month and a half, he had decided to return to Westchester, and accept Xavier's offer to join the X-Men.
Everything had been fine until he arrived in Albuquerque. There, his plane had been delayed nearly twelve hours, and, even then, he would not be able to go straight to New York. He had to go from Albuquerque to Detroit, and then take another plane from there to New York. As he had been going towards his terminal, he was ambushed by some type of robot. They appeared human, and wore all black. Dark sunglasses hid their eyes, which were a glowing yellow color, the only way to distinguish them from humans.
After a brief skirmish with the robots, he escaped from the airport. He had been disappointed to discover that the cell phone the Professor had given him had been destroyed, along with most of the other things in his knapsack. He slowly made his way to the highway, and there, was lucky enough to meet a truck driver going to New York. Arriving in Buffalo, he discovered that the sentinels had followed him from New Mexico. He decided that instead of heading straight to Westchester, it would be better if he went out of his way and into the woods. There, he was certain he could lose them and arrive less then ten miles away from the mansion.
He was now only a mile from the edge of the forest, but was now trapped. Out of the four that had tracked him, only one was left. It, which he assumed was a sentinel, knew that he was hiding in the deep brush just ahead of it. To Joey's right and left was open space, with a few trees every here and there. When the robot assassin came within ten feet of him, he made his move, and darted to his left, in the direction of Westchester.
Though he was a shape-shifter, Joey could only turn himself into one thing: a wolf. It was thus that a very large timber wolf ran out of the brush that had been hiding Joseph Whitefeather. The sentinel hesitated for a moment, not sure as to whether or not the creature was the mutant he was looking for. Detecting the mutant gene, it fired a laser that hit a tree in front of the wolf's path.
Despite Joey's attempt at getting past the tree, he could not. As the tree fell on him, he reverted to his human form, only to have the tree fall across his midsection. Believing its target to be for the most part neutralized, the sentinel walked slowly over to Joey. It bent down, took hold of Joey's long hair, and said, "Target neutralized."
The robot pulled off its glasses to reveal its eyes about to fire a pair of lasers. Before it could do so, a particularly long, sharp tree branch entered its eye followed by a shout of "Fuck you". The sentinel fell into convulsions, and collapsed with smoke blooming from its head. Having disposed of the sentinel, Joey, with a lot of difficulty, rolled the tree off of him. Standing up, and holding his side, he could only think about getting back to his newfound love, Celeste McMillan. And with that, he turned himself back into the wolf, and bounded painfully towards Westchester.
Just inside the confines of the forest, he collapsed, his injured insides sapping his strength. He had unconsciously morphed into his human form again, his mind too weary to keep up the effort. Carefully feeling his abdomen, he felt a white-hot searing pain tear through his body. Trying to control his breathing, and the tears streaming down his face, he lifted his head to peer at his midsection. Seeing blood, he placed tried to place his hand on the open wound, but the pain was too much. Pain worse than he had ever experienced traveled over his entire body like a jackhammer to the spine, causing him to lose his breath and consciousness.
The images he saw brought him back to over a month before, when he had walked back into his old house. Though he had been gone for only a couple of months, it felt like an eternity. Only two days before, he had received the call from his mother, telling him that his father had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. She had explained to him that the doctor had told them that it had already spread to most of the rest of his body. It was, she said, only a matter of time.
After he hung up the phone, he realized he was afraid. It took him a moment to realize the reason. It wasn't really that his father was dying. That scared him, he would admit. But, the way that his mother had related the news was much more scary. She had spoken without any emotion, without any inflection. It had been almost as if she was an android, devoid of humanity. That was what scared him. She had been trying to control her emotions, trying to appear strong. And that was what had struck home. That was what made him realize it was no nightmare, no mere hallucination, but reality. It was happening. His father was dying.
He was about to open the door, when his mother opened the door, almost on cue. He could tell from her face that she had been crying; and Maggie Whitefeather, he knew, never cried. He didn't remember everything very well after that. He remembered his mother hugging him, and welcoming him home. He remembered Teddy, his older brother, sitting at the kitchen table, his mind lost in thought. But, he didn't remember how he got to his parents' room. It had seemed as if he was on a cloud, as if he wasn't really taking any steps at all. And then he saw his father, lying on his back, his face pallid from the sickness ravaging his body.
"Joseph." He was the only one that had ever called him that, instead of Joe or Joey. "Sit beside me," he said. His voice betrayed the strength it once had, the strength his body once had. He had always been a big man, tall, and powerful. But, like this, it seemed almost a mockery of the man he once knew. "I know you, like your mother and brother, are scared for me. Do not be, my son. I will be leaving this world soon, and I will be with our ancestors." And then he started telling him a story, something that he felt was important. But, Joey droned him out.
He had never believed in the stories and tales his father told him. They were the Old Ways. In this day and age, the Old Ways were antiquated, and, he thought, backwards. But, he would never tell that to his father. But, he suspected. Joey could only pretend to listen so long, before his father would notice that he wasn't listening. This time, his father kept on with the tale, though Joey didn't notice he had finished until he had fallen asleep, exhausted from the ordeal.
Nearly a month on the res passed, his father's condition slowly deteriorating. It was painful, watching him grow weaker. It was such a contradiction to his perception of his father. Tensions had been high in his entire family. Teddy had taken over the position of chief of tribal police. It wasn't easy for him; he had been a deputy under his father. And now, as their father was almost dead, they all almost felt they could tear each other's throats out.
Now, as Joey sat alone at the kitchen table, his brother on patrol, and his mother shopping, he knew his father's time was soon. And it was then that his father called out for him, his voice much stronger than what it had been in a very long time. "Joseph," the voice called from the bedroom. "Joseph, come to me, I must speak to you." It occurred to Joey that the voice may even have been stronger than what he had ever remembered.
Walking into the room, he was assaulted with the smell of sickness, of death. His father, who had previously been lying on the bed, was now sitting, his legs dangling off the bed. Though he was still incredibly thin, almost emaciated, he had a smile on his face that seemed to contradict his condition. "Have a seat, Joseph," he said, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.
"Are you better," Joey asked, taking a seat.
"No. I am still sick Joseph." He looked down to his hands which, until a month before, had been large, and powerful. Now, though, they were almost as thin as water reeds. "I think I will probably pass on soon. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. But, it will not happen until you have done one last thing for me."
"What?"
"You must go in search of a vision."
"Father-"
"No. I know you don't believe in the Old Ways, Joseph. But, I do. I was taught them, as I tried to teach you. But, that is behind us now. We must look to the future." He looked down at his hands again, knowing his son would not believe what he was about to say. "You will be very important to the future, Joseph. I know this because I saw it in a vision. Go out into the desert tonight, without food, or water. Go, build a fire, and you will see what you will."
"Damnit, when will you see that I don't believe the same things you do! Stop trying to make me believe what I don't want to." Before he could continue his rant, his father's hand shot out, and grabbed his wrist. The sheer strength in his hand was so incredibly powerful, so overwhelming, that he fell to his knees, clutching at his arm.
"What the hell? Let go of my arm!"
"No." The older man's voice resounded throughout the room, almost as if it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "I am not asking you to do this to believe in what I believe. I am telling you to do this, as the last wish of your dying father. Do it." His voice was so powerful, so influential, that Joey knew that he had to agree. If not, that voice, the voice that was his father, but wasn't, would be angry. And he didn't want to know what that voice could do if it were angry.
Several hours later found him sitting in the desert, a heavy denim coat covering his massive form. A small fire was burning in front of him, the satisfying sound of the wood sputtering and crackling reaching his ears. He was poking the fire with a small stick, watching as the end started glowing. He looked up at the sky for the umpteenth time, wondering if he should count the stars. I might be out here long enough to do it, he thought cynically. And with that thought he became angry. "What the hell am I supposed to be lookin' for out here? Goddamn it!" And with that, he kicked a stone as hard as he possibly could into the night. With his back to the fire, he didn't see what happened next, but he definitely heard it.
"JOSEPH!!!!!!" A loud, incredibly powerful voice called to him. He turned on his heels, and fell onto his back. A huge WHOOSH filled the desert air, as the small fire that was only large enough for a single person became a blazing inferno. It had only given off barely enough heat to warm himself, but now, now he almost felt he was baking. The yellow fire, once barely two feet tall, was now becoming blue, and was now easily two stories high. Suddenly, a figure began to take shape in the midst of the flames, seemingly to be at once made of the fire, but not made of it. It was a woman, he realized. "Hello, Joseph."
"Who are you," he asked, his eyes wide. He watched in wonder as her form began to take on color, her skin dark, and her hair darker. She was beautiful, and looked as if she could be no older than thirty. But, somehow, he knew better. It was her eyes. They were haunted with age, wisdom and sorrow reflecting from their depthless pools. He had only seen that look in one other person's eyes, and that was Logan. Once, he decided, was enough.
"I am Speaks with the Wind," she said, her voice still powerful, but now much more gentle. "And you are correct; I am much older than even your friend Logan. And I am here to tell you that you are very important to the future of not only your people, but all peoples. I know all that has transpired that has led up to this point. But, I cannot tell you the entire story. I can only show you how you and your family are involved in this." She gestured for him to look behind her, and suddenly the desert was gone, replaced with an impossibly bright light.
When the light faded, he saw that he was in a large vale. A river ran through the middle of the valley, the shores green, and verdant, flowering plants trees dotting the landscape. But beyond the dale, he somehow knew that the land was barren and dry for as far as the eye could see. He realized he was close to home. He looked around, and saw what looked like a great meeting taking place. There were an uncountable number of fires blazing, each with nine or ten young men sitting around them. Suddenly, he realized they were all warriors. But, something was wrong.
It slowly dawned on him. Each fire represented a different nation. As he looked upon the gathered warriors, he realized he knew the nation of each and every single one. There were Apache, Ojibwa, Cheyenne, Cherokee, Pawnee, Sioux, Comanche, Kiowa, Mohawk, and many, many more. As he watched, he saw four more parties arrive. The first was Cree, the second Huron, the third Chinook, and the fourth …. It took him a few moments to realize from what nation they were from. When he finally did, he couldn't believe it. They were Aztec. Watching as they found their seats, he wondered just when this was.
He looked up, seeing a movement at the opening of the semicircle that the warriors were seated in. An old woman began walking towards them, a boy no older than ten holding her hand. Her white hair fell in two, long braids, framing her crevassed face. She was the oldest woman he had ever seen. Despite her age, though, he could see her eyes held strength and lucidity. He somehow knew without knowing that she was much, much stronger than she looked. And suddenly, it dawned on him. It was the same woman he saw in the fire. That was when she began to speak.
"You all have been gathered hear at a most dangerous time," she said, her voice loud and clear. "Warriors from all nations, you have been called to defeat an enemy that comes from the west, beyond the water." There was a slight murmuring that came out of the gathered people. "This enemy is more powerful than any rivalry between our peoples, and must be dealt with." He didn't hear the rest of the woman's speech as her voice seemed to echo in his head. It is good to see you Elúk ter ce Ristoren. It is a good omen that you are here. He could almost hear her smile within his mind, but he didn't know what she was talking about. Do not worry. You will soon take your place, Hesír-Tanúk. But for now, tanúk hai, go and see that which will happen, and what awaits you.
The white light returned, just as he saw bowl of steaming liquid delivered to all of the camps. Once the light faded, he found he was next to a small valley that ran through a vast plain. All around him, there was smoke so thick it could have been cut with a knife. But, it wasn't the smell of burning brush. He didn't recognize the pungent, sick-sweet smell emanating from the smoke at first. It hit him just as some of the smoke was cleared by the wind. It was burning flesh.
All around him were mounds of the dead, burning merrily away. He was about to look away, when he realized they weren't human. They were something…else. They were what could have been almost scorpion-like. But, they were much, much too large. Others, the one he thought human, were actually closer to something out of your nightmares. Still inspecting the burning bodies, he heard a sudden footstep ahead of him.
Looking up, he saw a young man walking around the bodies. Somehow, Joey knew that he was the only survivor of this terrible battle. He walked wearily, as if the battle had just ended. Judging by the man's appearance, he was sure it had. He had strange, viscous black blood covering his body, and streaks of red blood still wet on his brow. The young man looked up, his face grim, and Joey realized the warrior looked like him. It was one of the Apache he had seen at the meeting. But, more than that, the warrior was his ancestor. My family's been involved in something big for a long time, he thought. And, with that thought, the bright white light returned.
When the light faded once again, he found himself on a chilly, cloudless night. He looked up, and saw stars, stretching away into oblivion. Turning around, he saw over five hundred men and women gathered. Their faces were grim, and drawn, fear evident in their eyes. But, for every bit of fear, he saw an equal amount of determination. An army, he realized. He was in the front lines of an army. But, it was the oddest looking army he'd ever seen. None of them seemed to have any kind of weapon. Confused, he looked down to himself.
He was surprised to find he had a lance in his left hand. It was a beautiful, but massive weapon. At the base of the blade, he saw a large, red gem that seemed to almost glow under its own light. He felt weight on his waist, and looked to either side of the belt he was wearing. On one side he had a large, dangerous looking knife. On the other, he had a very sharp hatchet. Each was as ornate as the lance, and had a single gem somewhere on the hilts. Admiring the workmanship, he was surprised when he heard the sound of drums and marching coming from somewhere ahead of him.
Looking up, he saw an army approaching. He was shocked to see that it was composed of the same creatures he had seen burning. Giant, scorpion-like men carried large, scimitars made of an odd, golden metal. Other things, with midnight black exoskeletons, capturing the moonlight on their unnatural hides, moved with extraordinary fluidity. They had two pairs of arms each, ending in talons serrated on the top edge. They had gossamer wings adorning their backs, and long, sharp toothed snouts dripping saliva as they moved. Still there were other things that were complete aberrations to nature, things that shouldn't be seen by the light of day.
He suddenly felt himself changing, his body going through the familiar metamorphosis into its lupine form. But, as he looked to his hands, he saw that they hadn't become paws, but rather large, grey furred hands, with sharp claws at the ends. He was a werewolf! He turned to the gathered people behind him, and saw to his surprise that they, too, were all werewolves. Hesír-Tanúk. The words echoed in his mind. What did they mean?
Suddenly, from his own throat, a mighty battle cry resounded; one that would make the hardest man shrink in fear. Behind him, the gathered lycanthropes repeated his war cry, and with a massive wave of his lance, he led his soldiers into battle. And as the bright light returned, battle was enjoined, unholy blood of demons being spilled with that of enraged man-beasts.
When the light faded, he was looking into the face of a man with dark hair, beginning to gray along the temples. He reminded Joey of Vincent Price. The man bent down, and picked him up. But, the white-hot pain returned, spreading like wild fire, forcing him unconscious again.
Logan was standing outside smoking a cigar. Inside, the others were watching some movie that seemed as boring as hell. He was looking northwest, where there were dark storm clouds. Occasionally, he caught the scent of the storm, which was disturbing him. It did not smell like an ordinary thunderstorm, but more unearthly. He couldn't place it, but he was certain he knew the smell.
He turned at the sound of the front door opening to see a pair of red eyes staring back at him. It was Remy, who had also become bored with the movie. He stood on the opposite side of the doorway, and lit up.
"Gambit was wondering how it be possible dat he can't stand dat movie, but Jake can."
"He wasn't standin' the movie, Gumbo. He was asleep."
"Oui?"
"He was droolin' on 'is shirt." Remy laughed at this, and then fell silent. He, like Logan, seemed to be studying it. After a few minutes, he spoke.
"Dat storm, it don't look right."
"It ain't right, Gumbo. It don't smell like it should. It smells like-"
"Like magic?" It was a new voice coming from just beyond the light of the lamp above them. A thin man with black hair that was graying on the sides walked into the illuminated area. It was Dr. Steven Strange, greatest sorcerer in the world. Though he did not seem to have the strength to do it, he held in his arms a very big man with long, black hair. "I believe you know this man. He is hurt very badly, and needs to be tended to immediately".
A few minutes later, Wolverine, Gambit, Beast, and Celeste were with Joey in the infirmary. Hank was studying his midsection, where he had apparently received a very strong blow. After a few more minutes, he asked Celeste to wait outside. He wanted to speak with Dr. Strange, as well as Logan, and Remy.
"Steven, you said that you found him not far beyond the property, correct?"
"Yes. He had collapsed and I was just lucky enough to find him. However, he appears to have sustained major trauma to his abdomen. I believe that he has internal injuries as well, if I am not mistaken."
"Correct. His injuries are consistent with a singular, powerful blow to the abdomen. It stands to reason that whatever caused the damage was very massive; perhaps a tree or a car."
"What're ya sayin', Hank? He gonna be alright," Logan asked.
"He seems to be bleeding internally. It, however, is too far progressed for us to stop. He will die before dawn. There is nothing I can do," Hank said, his voice sinking into despair. Joey had become a good friend of his, much in the same way as Bobby was. He had, in fact, been close to many of them. He looked towards the hallway, where Celeste, Joey's lover, was waiting. He did not look forward to telling her; he rarely ever had to do anything of the sort. Finally setting his face, he exited the room, and went to speak with Celeste.
As Gambit looked, he saw her face become sad, and tears begin to run down her face. Finally, she stepped into the room, and asked to be alone with him. Logan and Remy obliged, but forgotten in the far corner was Strange, who had become one with the shadows. She went to Joey's bed, where she kneeled and took his hand. She began to cry even more. No words, just silent tears. Outside, the storm began to pick up, rain falling in torrents. A role of thunder, louder than she had ever heard, shook the mansion's very roots. Though she did not know it, lighting was striking the earth, repeatedly and more times than could be counted. Though one would expect the smell of ozone to accompany the lightning, there was no scent anywhere it struck.
Dr. Strange came out of the shadows, but kept himself hidden from her sight. He walked towards her. He touched her arm, the first time she noticed his presence, and said something nonsensical. He said, "You need not grieve, for this man shall not die tonight. No person shall lose his or her life tonight. By morning, he, you, and all others in this mansion shall be stronger. Walk to the living room, and forget this."
She did as he said, for, though she did not know it, he had cast a spell on her. Just after she left, he heard a scream. Though he was not in the room, he already knew what happened. In a few moments, Henry returned. Two people were being carried to beds. The first was Jake Ayers, and the second was Betsy Braddock. Though he knew what had happened, he asked, "What happened?"
"Betsy and Jake were struck by lightning. It didn't come through the TV, or anything like that. It just came through the ceiling. But, it didn't make a mark," answered Rogue, who had helped carry Jake. "When it hit them, they began to shake like they were bein' electrocuted. The weird thing is they weren't hot when we picked them up. They were just the same."
"What is even more odd," added Henry, "is that they have absolutely no mark on their bodies to show for the strike. Lightning is hotter than the surface of the sun; they should have at least have had a burn." He continued to see what was wrong with them. Not finding anything unusual physically, he decided to measure their brain waves. After studying the print out, he said, "Our friends seem to be in comas. They, however, seem almost to be asleep."
"They are asleep, friend Henry," said Strange. "That lightning did no harm to them. It does, however, signal something grave that I must speak to all of you about. For, though the lightning only struck those two, you will all feel its effects. Is there a place where we can all speak together?"
"Yes," answered Professor Xavier. "We can meet in the War Room."
"Good. If we can all meet there in ten minutes, I would be much obliged. There is much I need to discuss with you all."
"What about Jake, Betsy, and Joey? Shouldn't someone be here to look after them," asked Jean.
"No," Dr. Strange answered. "They need not us. They will be perfectly fine; even Joseph. They will heal in their own time."
AN: I'm not going to explain what Hesír-Tanúk means, or what any of the other stuff means. It'd give away too much. But, suffice to say, it's not supposed to be a Native American language.
AN2: I'm sorry it took me so long to update; I've had a lot of junk going on lately. Finally, PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!