Mystique tapped one foot impatiently, the sound of the well-worn sole nearly muffled against the rock of the hanger. The blackbird sat behind her, hatch opened, a reminder of the days long past. The days when at least certain members of the mutant population had the funds necessary to fight for their dreams, rather than simply waiting for extermination. Despite the fact that Mystique had disagreed with his views, Charles Xavier had been a man that she respected for his tenacity and conviction. The very same conviction that had gotten him killed, but in Mystique's mind that made him no less worthy of her respect.
Katherine Pryde had joined her nearly a half-hour earlier, choosing to sit on a crate of outdated supplies and wait for the third member of the rescue mission. Her brown hair was painfully short, too short to even curl as it once had. She had taken the fall of Excalibur, and the death of several of her teammates hard. Hard enough to spend every day afterward working on how she could possibly make her powers work better, how she could use them to save those closest to her in the future as she had been unable to in the past. Black shirt, black pants, black shoes were the attire of the day, fitting the concept of uniform without any logo or code of arms linking them together.
The linkage between them was something they carried in their minds, not on their bodies. Everyone knew the drill, despite the fact that a rescue mission had not been attempted in several years. Get in, get out. If you get left behind, there was no guarantee that anyone would ever be coming back, so be prepared to survive on your own. The objective is everything and failure is not only an option, but a major possibility.
The final member of the team strode in, and almost elicited a clap from Mystique. Gambit had forgone his trench coat, as she had requested in favor of a black muscle shirt and a nearly equally tight pair of pants.
"Dis a long way from mi style, non," commented the Cajun.
"Don't care. Let's go," was Mystique's brusque reply. Katherine said nothing, falling into step behind Gambit as the three climbed into the blackbird.
So off they went with the stated intentions of rescuing two of their leaders from execution for making the tough decisions that go other people killed.
A plate struck the floor and shattered. It was the third one that he had picked up in the last few minutes. But unlike the others, this one drew attention because Lenneth was back in the apartment with him and came to investigate the noise. What she found was Nathan leaning against the counter in the kitchen, steadying himself with one hand against his forehead.
Stopping close enough to press against him, she asked,
"Are you alright?"
"Fine," he snapped, half turning away from her. That was when she truly looked at his hand. Grabbing him by the wrist, she pulled him back toward her.
"Nathan, what is going on?" The back of his hand was spotted, liver spotted, a condition he had never had before. But he had been a young man when he was offered an eternity to study the human animal. As she held his hand, she could feel it trembling, shaking. "How long has this been going on?"
"There is nothing wrong. I've simply overextended myself," the sound of his voice said he wanted to believe his explanation, yet there was a tinge, an undertone, of fear.
Lenneth put one arm around his neck, resting her head against his chest, refusing to ask anymore questions and make him lie further. Pulling away, she picked up a plate off the counter and took it to the table. Then she continued onward and out of the room, leaving him to his own devices. By the time she reached their bed and sat down on the end of it, her mind was racing with the possibilities.
Nathan had been without his abilities for over five years. In that time, it appeared that he had been aging at the same rate as any normal person. A day was a day, a year a year. But now it was evident that he was aging faster than either he had anticipated or she had expected. Weary, she hung her head. The idea of it was staggering. Without his powers, he would age and die much sooner than if he had lived his normal life. A muffled cough came to her ear, bringing her head up with the first feelings of true fear. If she did not do something and quickly, the man she loved and to whom she had devoted her entire life would be gone. And this time, she would have to watch him die.
Years ago, he had simply not returned, marked as missing, but presumed dead. So she had lived her life according to that presumption, that he was indeed dead. Lady Essex had become a widow. Stretching backward, Lenneth ran her hand over the sheets near where he slept beside her. With the presumption of his death, she had allowed her bed to remain empty and cold, fitting punishment for the years of infidelity that she had heaped upon her husband's shoulders. Lying back, she turned on her side, looking toward his half of their rumpled bed. She hadn't made the bed that morning, perhaps out of sheer disinterest, but now the look of it, with its forgotten blanket and crumpled sheets, was a reminder of the life that she might once again be losing.
Another muffled cough came from the next room and she tried not to think about the number of things that it could be the herald of. Pneumonia or something worse. Perhaps a genetic defect that his abilities had saved him from all those years ago. Maybe he would have died early if she had managed to persuade him not to take Apocalypse's golden apple.
A species of madness crept over her at the thought of the much more powerful mutant who had granted her husband his powers. Fingers twined in long locks, dragging them out to the ends of their lengths only to rush back to dig into her scalp. Yet even as she pushed the thought of him away, a single tiny voice said,
"What he grants once, he can grant again. For a price."
And what price would a desperate woman be willing to pay?
Rogue sat on the edge of a rock outcropping overlooking a sea of sand. Off in the distance what looked like a bird flew away to parts unknown.
"Soon," said someone behind her in a low, ominous voice. "Soon the time will come to begin."
The Southern femme fatale raised on hand to brush a stray strand of white hair from her face, a face that looked as though someone had painted a butterfly wing over one eye in blue, red, and black.
"Ah'm ready."
"Good. The resurrection is at hand."
