Yay! Our first story!

disclaimer: Not ours! We're just some poor kids -- way more poor than Bryan Singer or Stan Lee.

curt's crap: please enjoy! concrit is welcome, flaming is evil!

kmf's stuff: enjoy! and be nice! flaming is truly evil!

by the way, if you enjoyed the story, check out our profile. it WILL help you later! i promise.

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Prologue

The room fell quiet as the old man took the stage and stopped behind the podium. Leaning into the microphone, he heaved a sigh of regret for all the things he had caused. Not knowing the danger lurking behind the stage curtain, he began to speak.

"I never meant for this kind of turmoil when I came up with the idea for a cure. I just wanted to help my son. I am officially ending production of the cure and..." But Worthington never finished his sentence. He was too busy staring into the eyes of a mutant, who stood at his left, only inches from the podium. The mutant had flicked something on his wrist and a fireball formed in his hand.

"So, you thought you could cure us? I've got news for you: We are the cure," the young man said, quoting his old mentor. The fireball began to grow, and before Worthington knew what had happened, the young man hit him with it. Worthington collapsed, half of his body burning from the flames. The mutant was suddenly surrounded by soldiers who had been making their way through the crowd moments before. A fire extinguisher was used on Worthington as the mutant raised his hands in mock surrender. A smirk lit the young man's face up as he looked around at the men surrounding him.

"Ok, boys. What's the first rule to playing with fire?" the young man asked. The soldiers looked around at each other, wondering who he thought he was.

"Get down on the ground and keep your hands where we can see them, kid. Don't make any more trouble for yourself with cocky jokes," one of the men said. The mutant smirked again.

"The first rule to playing with fire... Don't," he said. He flicked the thing on his wrist a second time. The soldiers prepared to shoot. A second fire ball formed in his hand, only to be shot at two of the men surrounding him. As he went to turn around to the other men, something hit him in the back of the head, effectively knocking the young man unconscious.

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St. John Allerdyce looked around the room that had become his cell as he sat on the edge of his cot, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. The police had brought him to Alcatraz, where the government had rebuilt the prison as a jail for high-threat mutants. The room had been specially designed so that he would have no source of fire or heat. He was even on the opposite side from the furnace. And to make matters worse, the guards were keeping him sedated with a drug they called Haldol, because it effectively calmed a person down. They would strap him down and inject small amounts slowly into his blood and he would suddenly feel tired and slow.

He was too busy berating himself to care, though. He couldn't believe he had gotten caught trying to kill Worthington, and he hadn't even killed the guy.

He knew, though, that outside the prison walls something big was brewing. The humans weren't going to stand around after another mutant attack and just let the mutants run rampant.

He knew there would be hell to pay for the misdeeds of every mutant who walked the Earth. For every mutant who had gotten his or herself locked up in the new Alcatraz.

He especially knew he was itching to be a part of everything.

"Read 'em an' weep, mon amis. Straight flush."

A chorus of groans and curses met the declaration, accompanied by irritated throwing down of cards and the scrape of chairs being pushed back from the table as the disappointed losers left. The man in the sunglasses scraped up his winnings -- the patrons had long since learnt not to argue over it with him -- and pocketed it. He headed to the bar, his walk a signature natural swagger and ordered a scotch. Antwone didn't ask questions of anybody and readily complied. The man accepted it with a charming crooked grin, which masked the anxieties in his mind, and a raise to the bartender. The man swirled the amber liquid in his glass before throwing it back. It burned a smooth path down his throat. The sounds of the bar were all too familiar, and quiet in the background compared to his swirling thoughts. A patron's demand to Antwone to turn up the volume of the television sliced through the din of his mind. Interest mildly piqued, the man glanced up to see what was so captivating -- and found himself intrigued.

"Today an attempt was made on Warren Worthington, Sr's life. Worthington, who discovered and manufactured a cure for the mutant race not long ago was announcing..." The reporter's monotone faded out to his ears. All his attention was focused on the picture in the righthand corner of the screen of the mutant who had attacked Worthington. Nothing more than a kid, really, but -- as he watched the footage of the attempt -- a kid with moxy -- daring, bold. A kid with style.

And style and daring were things that Remy LeBeau appreciated.

"Alcatraz, eh?" he whispered to himself. An aerial view of the rebuilt, reconverted island prison filled the television screen. Remy pushed away from the bar, flipping up the collar of his beaten leather duster as he walked out the doorsand into the muggy New Orleans night. "I think I'ma headin' out t' California. Meet this Allerdyce homme m'self."

(The lyric in the page break is from "Image of the Invisible" by Thrice)