"And if you look out the left-hand windows, you should get your first view of the island"

The clouds parted. Genosha lay below, an emerald star in the tropical sea. The island was lush with jungle, rising up to a range of brown peaks. Black smoke rose in a continuous stream from a wide bay on the southern coast.

Graydon Creed raised his microphone:

"Genosha was once a haven for pirates, who preyed on the Spanish treasure galleons that sailed from the Americas to Europe. I'm sure you realise the irony of turning a den of thieves into a prison."

There were a few polite smiles from the passengers.

"That smoke you can see is from controlled de-forestation. We are clearing space for the first two camps…"

"Two camps, Mr Creed?" asked Ms. Pritchard, a blubbery woman with a double chin.

"One for the men, one for the women. I'm sure I don't to explain the reason why to you, Ms. Pritchard" Creed explained, favouring her with one of his most charming smiles. Ms. Pritchard blushed slightly under her thick makeup and turned back to the window.

"You must be running quite an extensive operation down there, Mr Creed," said Mr Corgan, the Texan oil tycoon.

"Seems to me" Mr Corgan continued "Seems to me that you got pretty deep pockets Mr Creed. Why would you be needin' outside investors, like myself?"

Creed's smile remained quietly confident.

"It is true that we have received… substantial funding from the UN, Mr Corgan, but we are only in the preliminary stages of construction. Without your investment, we won't get above foundation level."

"Now hold on there Creed. I ain't signed up to your scheme yet," said Mr. Corgan with a self-satisfied smile.

Oh, but you will, Creed thought. That's why I chose you. That's why I chose all of them. Because every one of you hates mutants, in your own way.

Not only did Creed know how they demonstrated their hatred, he also knew why. The why was the key. It was well known in certain circles (although he kept it carefully hidden from the general public) that Corgan would not employ a known mutant and would go to great lengths to have them removed. But what was less well known was that, in his youth, Corgan had been engaged to a mutant girl. The shock upon discovering her secret created in Corgan a deep-seated prejudice against mutantkind. That kind of information did not come cheap, but to a man like Creed it could be very powerful.

"When are the camps due to be open?" asked Mr Juarez, a Mexican businessman with an international chain selling electrical goods. Who lost a fortune in gold bullion when mutant terrorists raided his Swiss bank account last year, Creed reminded himself.

"With proper funding, the camps will be ready in a matter of weeks. Construction of the central complex has yet to begin, but we estimate that it will take less than two months" Creed explained.

A light over the cabin door turned on.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly fasten your seatbelts" Creed instructed "We are about to descend."

The plane began to turn left, swooping down towards the island in a long curve. Looking out the windows, the passengers could see a collection of dark buildings around a bay on the north-east corner of the island.

"That, ladies and gentlemen, is Hammer Bay" explained Creed, who was now seated "It used to be a US naval base for servicing nuclear submarines, but they're transferring it to us as soon as we're firmly established on the island."

"So the United States government will have no involvement in the camps?" asked Ms. Pritchard, a life-long bigot who demonised mutants to compensate for her own inadequacies.

"No more than any other government, Ms. Pritchard. Our guards will be part of an international force appointed by UN. The prison will retain all of Hammer Bay's facilities but it was felt that it would be unwise to risk nuclear weaponry falling into mutant hands."

"I think you meant to say mutant terrorist hands, Mr Creed" interjected a British voice from the back of the plane. Creed turned in his seat.

Ah yes, he thought, it would be you.

"That is what I meant, of course, Mr Marko" said Creed, keeping his expression carefully blank.

Francis Marko was a reclusive British eccentric, with a reputed multibillion-dollar fortune. Creed had been unable to discover how Marko earned his money. Neither had he found a specific reason for Marko's anti-mutant prejudices. Creed's agents had provided him with several cases that demonstrated Marko's hatred, but they could discover no underlying motivation. Creed had concluded that it was simply an irrational hatred, maybe even verging on psychosis. If that was the case, then Marko was the mildest psychopath Creed had ever met. Creed had only spoken to him briefly, but Marko gave the impression of a well-spoken, middle-aged English gentleman with a mind as sharp as a knife. He was easily the most dangerous member of the group.

The plane was coming in for its final descent, landing on a narrow airstrip on the landward side of Hammer Bay. The naval complex consisted of large grey buildings with camouflaged roofs (to confuse enemy spy planes) arranged around a heavily reinforced concrete fort. The submarine dry-dock, empty at the moment, was to the south. The whole complex was surrounded by a high wire fence.

"We won't be using aircraft to transport the prisoners to Genosha" Creed explained as he led the small group of investors across the airstrip, heading for the fort.

"It's too dangerous to risk them gaining control of an aircraft. Transporting mutants also requires lots of special equipment to cope with their unique powers, many of which is too heavy to load onto a aeroplane. So we are going to be using three specially converted navy destroyers instead."

"And if the mutants should take control of the ship?" asked Ms. Stachanonvik, the sour-faced owner of a popular fast food chain. Her reason for hating mutants had been well concealed. Discovering it had cost Creed a lot of money, but it had been worth it. Ms. Stachanonvik's great-aunt had been a mutant. It was a case of guilt by relation.

"Ships are harder to lose than aeroplanes," Creed said "And more easily re-captured. In the worse case scenario, we can simply take out the ship with an air strike."

"You have thought of everything, have you not Mr. Creed" said the thin, haughty voice of Feng Lau. Creed had worked with some terrible men in his life, but Feng Lau disgusted even him. Arrogant beyond belief, Lau used his dessert manufacturing business as a cover for a lucrative heroin smuggling ring. He was immensely cruel, with a voracious sexual appetite and a casual disdain for human life. He would probably invest in the scheme simply for the pleasure of causing pain, Creed thought.

"I thank you, Mr Lau" said Creed "I am sure we will be able to cope with any problems the mutants may throw at us."

"Quite right, too" said Lau with a slight smile.

The group passed through a checkpoint and into the fort. Creed led them through low corridors of bare concretes. He made a special point of pointing out the advanced security technology; electrified floors, reinforced blast doors, vents for pumping nerve gas into the corridor.

The investors were then led to a large room that had once served as the mess hall for the fort's garrison. The large table in the centre of the room had been converted into a scale model of the finished camps. The investors spread out round the table, peering closely at the model. Creed stepped back into a corner to observe their body language. Ms. Pritchard screwed up her nose; she was evidently baffled. Lau was smiling slightly. Corgan and Juarez were looking thoughtful and conversing in low voices. Marko was as unreadable as ever. Creed allowed them a few minutes inspection before stepping back up to the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen" he said, waiting until he had their attention "as you have no doubt realised, this is a mock up of what the finished camps will look like."

"Very impressive, Mr Creed" said Lau "How do you intend to control the mutants once you have imprisoned them? These are not ordinary prisoners, after all."

"I'm glad you asked me that, Mr Lau" said Creed, drawing a remote control from inside his jacket "If you would kindly direct your attention to the far end of the room…"

Creed touched a button on the remote. A light sprang on at the end of the room. Its narrow beam illuminated a glass cabinet containing an mannequin wearing orange boiler suit.

"This is the uniform the prisoners will wear" said Creed, stepping over to the cabinet.

"Observe their shoes" he continued, "Loose plastic: useless for trekking through jungle. This will help restrict their movement to the areas around the camp. The suit's distinctive colour will also make it easier for us to track escapees."

Creed touched another button on the remote. A second cabinet was illuminated, to the right of the first. This mannequin was wearing a high-tech military uniform.

"This is the equipment the camp guards will use" Creed explained. He explained the suit's many special features: bullet-proof body armour, night goggles, resistance to extreme temperatures, stun gas grenades, tranquiliser dart gun, electrified baton.

"Commendably vicious, Mr Creed" said Marko with a wry smile.

"These mutants are animals, Mr Marko" Creed replied "Many people wanted to equip the guards with firearms as standard but it was felt that this combination was more… humane."

Creed sneered at that final word. It had the desired effect. The investors smiled. They shared his sentiment and made no attempt to hide the fact.

"Very useful, I do not doubt, Mr Creed" said Lau, a shrewd look on his face "For human prisoners. But these… mutants. Some of their powers are far greater than mere technology. How can you be sure that your guards will be equipped to deal with, say, a mutant like Magneto?"

Creed pushed a third button on the remote. The third cabinet contained only one item.

"This collar…" Creed began, but Marko interrupted:

"… will suppress their powers"

Creed stared at Marko. For a brief moment, there was a strange look in his eye. Something like terror, or disgust. It was so quick that Creed almost missed it, but he sure it had been there.

"It's like you read my mind, Mr Marko" Creed said, his face betraying none of his suspicions. Marko smiled and said nothing as Creed explained about the contract with Worthington Labs.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"This is a message to the enemies of mutantkind. Two months ago, our leader, Magneto, was taken from us. He fell in combat, fighting for the future of his people. He became a glorious martyr to the cause of mutant supremacy.

Magneto had a vision: a vision of times to come. He knew that one day we would be free. He knew that we would not always be the ones to run, the ones to cower in fear. He looked forward to that glorious day when we, homo superior, would assume our birthright: domination.

Magneto is gone. Snatched from us, by your hands. He will not see the day of mutant victory. But his sacrifice will not be forgotten. I, Acolyte, faithful servant of Magneto, make this vow: that I will avenge my master's death and see his dream fulfilled. I, and the Brotherhood of Mutants, his children, are still here.

The war will continue. Expect no mercy from us, for you showed us none. The death of Magneto will be avenged by the death of a million humans, and then a million more. No one will be safe; man, woman or child. Long live the Brotherhood! Long live mutantkind!"

"And…cut!"

There was a small round of applause from Multiple Man, who was acting as director of the video. And the cameraman. And the sound technician. And the boom-operator.

Acolyte slumped back into his chair. Reaching up, he pushed his hood back to get more air. He felt drained. The speech had been strangely cathartic, releasing much of the stress and worry that had been building up over the past few weeks. But it had not released his anger, that dull ache in the depths of his chest. Perhaps nothing could really remove that.

"Multiple Man, get one of you to run out to the police station tonight. Make sure you leave the disk somewhere obvious, huh?"

"Sure thing, boss" said the director Man. Getting up from his canvas chair, Multiple Man stood still for a moment and then a new, identical, copy stepped out of him. Acolyte still found that power impressive, no matter how many times he saw it. The new copy ejected the DVD from the recorder behind the camera and, pocketing it, headed towards the tunnel that led to the surface.

"Any news on Shocker?" Acolyte asked, looking across the cave to where Blob and Juggernaut sat playing cards. It was quite funny to watch; neither of them had hands small enough to hold the cards, so were constantly dropping cards and blaming the other. The arguments invariably degenerated into futile punch-ups.

"Nah, nothin'" grunted Blob, not looking up as he tried shuffle the deck between his thick, swiss-roll fingers.

"Longshot's out front waitin' for 'im, Pyro," said Juggernaut, scowling at Blob's slowness.

"Pyro died at Alcatraz," said Acolyte sharply "I am Acolyte"

Pyro had been weak. He had been unable to save Magneto. Iceman had beaten him. So, in the days after the Alcatraz incident, John had created Acolyte. Acolyte, who would be strong: a leader of mutants and a living terror to humanity.

Juggernaut just shrugged

"Whatever. I can't follow all o' these name changes. Hey, why don't you change your name?" he said with a smile, prodding Blob in the chest "'Ave somethin' a even more appropriate, like Lard-Arse?"

Blob roared and punched Juggernaut in the jaw, scattering cards everywhere. Acolyte sighed. He stretched out his right hand and sent a jet of flame across the cave and over the brawlers' heads. The two mutants froze, their hands wrapped around each other's throats.

"Would you two quit it!" Acolyte yelled, leaning forward and thumping the table "Have you forgotten? We're at war! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'd say they're just trying to keep match fit, boss"

Acolyte looked round. Longshot was leaning against the tunnel entrance, eyeing them with contempt. Acolyte hated Longshot almost as much as he feared him. Not only was Longshot as powerful as Acolyte, he was also the only the member of the group with the intelligence and the ambition to take control, and they both knew it. The only reason Acolyte had not called him out was that he needed him for the upcoming operation. But he was too dangerous to be a permanent Brother, that was for sure.

"Any word from Shocker?" Acolyte asked, matching Longshot's arrogant stare and holding his gaze. Longshot gave a cocky grin and moved into the cave. Shocker appeared in the tunnel behind him, a briefcase in one hand.

"You got the schedules?" asked Acolyte, holding out his hand for the briefcase. Shocker nodded and handed him the case without a word.

"Excellent" Acolyte said with a smile.

"Brothers", he added, raising his voice to address the whole group "We're ready."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The door of the conference room slid open. Kitty Pryde tried to slip in unnoticed, but was brought up short by Ororo.

"Katherine Pryde," she snapped "your uniform is a mess. Straighten it up at once!"

Kitty mumbled an apology and half-heartedly adjusted the leather suit.

"Sit down" ordered Ororo. She was pale and red-eyed from lack of sleep. The pressure of command had done nothing for her temper either.

"Where were you?" asked Logan, who was sitting on Ororo's left in the centre of the table.

"With Bobby" Kitty mumbled, staring at the tabletop.

"You OK?" asked Peter Rasputin. Kitty nodded, but her red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face betrayed her.

"Now that we're all here" said Ororo, shooting another scathing glance at Kitty "I can make the introductions."

She pointed to the four monitors that had been set up opposite the table. They each showed a grainy webcam picture.

"You all remember Kurt?" Ororo said, indicating the monitor on the far left. The picture showed the elfin features of Kurt Wagner. He waved and gave a sharp-toothed grin.

Ororo then pointed to the monitor on Kurt's left. It showed a handsome, middle-aged man with dark skin.

"This is Forge" she explained "He helped build the Mansion and a lot of our 'special' technology."

Forge nodded. His expression was grave.

"That's Hank, obviously" said Storm. Dr McCoy smiled.

"And the last is another old friend: Alex, codename: Havok"

"Good to see you, Ororo!" said the fresh faced young man on the final monitor. Logan stared hard at him.

"There's something familiar about him," he said to Ororo under his breath.

"He's Scott's brother" replied Ororo, keeping her voice low. Logan's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"As there are so few X-Men left," Ororo explained "Logan and I have decided to call in some favours."

"Ach, Ororo, do you have to put it so? You know that I am always happy to help," said Kurt, shooting Ororo a playfully reproachful look.

"Yeah, what he said," added Alex.

"Thank you" said Ororo, smiling. It was strained, but it was the first smile she had worn for days.

"First thing we gotta do," said Logan, leaning forward onto his elbows "is to find Rogue."

"She can stay lost" muttered Kitty under her breath. But she was not quiet enough to escape Logan's hearing.

"You take that back!" he snapped, slamming a hand down on the table "She didn't hurt Bobby deliberately. It was an accident, got that?"

"Then why'd she run?" demanded Kitty, her eyes welling up with tears "Why? You don't run away unless you got something to run from! What's she afraid of!"

"You've got no idea," said Logan. A terrible look of pain had entered in his eyes.

"You've got no idea" he repeated "No idea what it feels like… like you could hurt someone without meanin' to. Even kill 'em… kill someone you love. So ya run. Ya run until ya can't hurt anyone any more. You have no idea."

There was silence in the conference room for a few seconds. Ororo cleared her throat.

"We understand. That's why we must find Rogue before she does herself, or anyone else, harm."

"What were her last known co-ordinates?" asked Forge.

"We're pretty sure she took a train to New York" said Logan "But beyond that… nothin'."

"I'm in that area," said Alex "Just gimme a photo and I'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Alex" said Ororo "Kurt, would you please work with him. Rogue knows you, so it should make finding her a little easier."

"Of course, schöner Dame"

"That leaves the rest of us to concentrate on the Brotherhood" said Ororo, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes "Hank, what progress have you made investigating the transfers to southern prisons?"

"None. I am afraid I do not have the correct security clearance," said Dr McCoy. His expression was grim.

"But… aren't you an ambassador or something?" said the perplexed Peter.

"Indeed I am, young man, but I only possess Level Three security clearance" said Beast "Information on this particular operation is restricted to persons with Level Four."

"And that's the maximum clearance you can get?" said Logan.

"Yes. The only person to possess unconditional Level Four Security Clearance is the President. The only way for anyone else to receive it is by personal presidential grant."

"This is starting to stink" Logan growled.

"There does indeed appear to be something unpalatable in Denmark," said Dr McCoy thoughtfully.

"Please keep trying, Hank" said Ororo.

"To the best of my abilities" said Dr McCoy graciously.

"So what are we going do about the Brotherhood?" asked Kitty.

"It looks like our only course of action is to remain vigilant" replied Ororo wearily "Investigate every lead and…"

She stopped abruptly. Logan had held up his hand. He was sniffing the air.

"Blood" he said, "Close. Outside the mansion."

"How on earth can you…" Kitty began to ask, but Logan cut her off.

"No time. Ororo, get the security cameras up on those monitors"

"Sorry you guys" said Ororo as she crossed the room to a computer station set into the northern wall. The monitors flickered into static and then switched to the monochrome security camera pictures. Ororo cycled through the cameras, covering nearly every inch of the grounds. She stopped when they activated the camera overlooking the mansion door.

Warren Worthington III was leaning against the doorframe, beating feebly on the wood with his fist. His pants were torn. His body was streaked with mud. The remnants of a shirt hung around his shoulders. His white-feathered wings were limp against his back. They were splattered with blood. A makeshift bandage was around his right shoulder. It was dripping blood. The X-Men watched horrified as the last of his strength gave out and he collapsed on the doorstop.