A TEST OF POWER
BY DR
Chapter 14

Power never takes a back step
- only in the face of more power

Malcolm X
1965

The present

Murderers, assassins, cutthroats, and even a homicidal maniac - the list of crimes perpetrated by the individuals in this room would fill up a respectably sized hard drive. Interpol, Shield, Governments both domestic and foreign would give up a year's budget to arrest just a small percentage of them. Despite their anti-social natures, vicious dispositions, and predilection for extreme violence, the spacious and lavishously equipped living quarters their magnanimous employer provided, accomodated them all quite comfortably.

The common room was approximately fifty-thousand square feet. It served as a dining hall, recreation room, and general meeting place. It contained a full sized gym, training area, a billiards table, and even an olympic sized pool. Over a dozen televisions were scattered about the room where a library of DVDs as well as an assortment of video games could be used to fill the time between assignments. A fully stocked bar and kitchen were also part of this room which catered to those with either exotic or more traditional tastes. Another level contained individual sleeping quarters, which also were equipped with televisions, computers, and each had private bathrooms with both showers and jacuzzis. More importantly it served as a safe haven, one that could only be reached by Sinister's tesseracts, and would only allow passage to the select people in his employ. This was the ultimate perk for career criminals who needed to escape the authorities at a seconds notice and ultimately could never be reached or apprehended by those very same people. In a certain fashion, Sinister was quite generous to those people who chose to work for him. In other ways...

Similar to a Friday night party at a frat house, Marauders socialized with Nasty Boys like fraternal brothers and sorority sisters. The communal setting was relatively amicable as well as normal considering the nature and makeup of the people present. Individuals who callously murdered and maimed the Morlocks -some of them children and all fellow mutants, were among this group.

Riptide and Ruckus were playing a high stakes game of nineball, hundred dollar bills were strewn all over the billiards table. Slab and Blockbuster were lifting weights, each trying to outdo the other with enormous feats of strength. Hairbag was trying to cozy up to Vertigo, his razor sharp fangs, claws, bushy hair, and smell, did not quite work in his favor. To the shapely mutant, he reminded her of an ugly junkyard dog and she rebuffed him once again.This wasn't the first - and it wouldn't be the last time she had to discourage his advances. Sabertooth, Gorgeous George, and Ruckus, were seated at the bar drinking beer. The remainder of both teams were eating and talking amongst themselves at a long dining table right beside the bar.

Sabertooth downed the entire mug of beer in a single swig. He belched loudly and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Heappeared to behaving a conversation with Gorgeous George and Ruckus but in reality was addressing everyone in the room. "This next gig, ain't no one comin' out alive...well none of us at least," Sabertooth said, loud enough to be heard by almost every person in the room.

Sabertooth was probably the only Marauder who never expressed any reluctance about any of the assignments they were given, and certainly not on any moral basis. As a matter of fact, it was usually the complete opposite. Bloodthirsty and sadistic, he was always anxious to go on a killing spree even when the mission didn't call for it. His tone in this particular case was actually bordering on sounding as if he was worried. Sabertooth's uncharacteristic tone brought an abrupt halt to the testosterone laden contest between Slab and Blockbuster. Great steel plates suddenly came crashing to the ground -the rubber-like floor only partially masking the sound as the two huge men walked over to the bar to hear what Creed had to say.

"Big fucking deal," Harpoon answered. "We're nothing more than hired muscle, told what to do." The dour faced Inuit spit the salmon bones out onto his plate, not a spec of meat remained on the fish carcass. He tore a piece of bread from an oversized loaf and walked over to the tin where the fish had been cooked. He dipped his piece of bread soaking up as much of the leftover marinade as it could hold. He bit into the bread, a respectable amount of juice and most probably saliva ran down his chin. He submerged the bread once again with no consideration given to any of the others who might like to sample the tasty liquid. "Why is this different than any other time?"

"Why is this different than every other time?" Sabertooth snarled in a mocking tone. "I'll tell you why you stupid fucking Eskimo - every other time, we were in the driver's seat - or at least had a chance. Six months, Sinister pulls this plan out of his ass - has us doing all these special training sessions - says we need to learn new stuff because we're gonna fight Apocalypse. Said it like it was some kind of honor. We haven't been able - or haven't been allowed to leave here for half a fuckin' year. What kind'a bullshit is that?"

"So why don't you say what you mean, Creed?" Scalphunter was using an oversized knife as a toothpick to pick pieces of meat from between his teeth. He pushed his plate away and threw a napkin over the remains of the bloody steak. He leaned back and balanced himself on the rear two legs of his chair. "If I'm hearin' you correctly, you say'in you wanna go against the boss?" Scalphunter asked, a mocking and skeptical tone underscoring his words.

"What I'm say'in asshole, is that I think Sinister is usin' us as a distraction, nothin' more. We ain't meant to steal nothin', kill nobody, or win nothin'" Creed shrugged and shook his head as if he regreted the energy he had used to speak. "I don't know why I'm saying anything, you dumb asses want put your necks out to be cut, fuck it. And watch your mouth with me Scalp, unless you wanna end up like that meat on yer plate," Creed answered.

Scalphunter just smiled, nonplussed, and pulled a large cruel looking gun from a holster and began polishing the barrel in answer to Creed's threat.

"So that's why the Boss wants us extra sharp, that's why all the special training," Blockbuster offered up earnestly as an explanation that he obviously believed.

Creed shook his head in disgust. "What a shit for brains. With all his big fucking smarts, fancy gizmos, and his own mutant powers - or whatever the hell he is, he needs us to kick his ass? What d'ya think we're gonna be able to do? We're fucking meat, dead meat. The only person that makes Sinister shit his pants is Apocalypse. Why do ya think that is? The way I heard it, he spent better than a hundred years tryin' to find a way to off him an' he's come up empty every damn time. This time ain't gonna be different or if it is, we're the front line that's gonna get wasted."

In a completely diplomatic tone, Gorgeous George addressed both teams as if he was campaigning for some political office. "I'm not suggesting we go against the Boss, but what Creed is saying here has some merit. I'm a little tired of being cooped up here and more importantly, going up against Apocalypse? Unless Sinister is going to do some kind of genetic tinkering, which I'm not crazy about as well, I have to agree with Creed and I think we should - pass on this assignment," George said trying to chose his words carefully. "We're not anywhere in Apocalypse's league. And in case anyone's noticed, he isn't one of the goodguys that we're used to fighting. We lose, we're not going to prison. Apocalypse won't hesitate to kill us and from what I hear, he's not likely to make it easy on us."

"Even a shithead like George, has more fuckin' brains than the frails on my team. So what are we gonna do about it?" Creed growled asking everyone.

"How many times have I warned you Victor," the familiar silk smooth voice suddenly sliced through the room, and had everyone's complete attention, "not to nurture the seeds of discontent?"

Creed inhaled sharply. Not a sound, no scent, not even the sense of a physical presence. Sinister was about the only person who could sneak up on him without any warning, and about the only person that that fact would cause him considerable concern.

Sinister casually walked the few feet to stand directly in front of Victor Creed, towering above even Sabertooth's great height. The appearance of refined manners, the semblance of politeness was still present in the words he spoke, but like the flicking of a light switch, it had vanished from his face and tone. He was one of them...brutish, violent, sadistic - without mercy. Sinister didn't even look at Creed, his confidence and control of both teams was so complete, he could turn his back to this room full of killers and not have a thing to worry about.

"Your esteemed teammate wants you to believe that you have the option to either participate or forgo involvement in any of my planned operations. I hope I don't have to dispel any impressions that any of you have a choice in this or any matter. The illusion of choice is just that - an illusion." Sinister looked around the room, daring anyone to meet his eyes with even the remotest gaze of defiance.

The room had gone deathly silent. Eyes darted around the room resembling those of trapped animals. They had all come under this extremely uncomfortable inspection by Sinister before. Sometimes it had beenbrought on seeminglyfor no reason at all.

"Why don't you join us Philipa?" Sinister said picking her out of the group. "I want to be assured that everyone gets the message I seem to have to impart every so often." Arclight was the last of the Marauders that needed be to reminded of just who was in charge. Her psychotic loyalty and verve to do Sinister's bidding was without question. But even those whose fidelity was beyond reproach were subject to Sinister's over-zealous scrunity. It was his common practice to employ any number of terror tactics to dissuade even the most fleeting thought of dissention. It said that you were not able to hide, nothing was beneath my notice. And no matter how devoted and dedicated you were to Sinister, it was never enough. You were always on the precipice of being eliminated.

The grotesquely muscled woman quickly moved to the forefront, her ungainly walk belying the fact that she was a skilled fighter, which was enhanced by a merciless disposition and enormous strength. She shoved Vertigo roughly out of her way, who winced in pain, her slight build offering no protection against the huge woman's strength. She wisely said nothing, knowing that her mutant powers were no match against Arclight.

Sinister suddenly directed his full attention to Creed, pinning him with a frightening stare. "Victor, why is it that sometimes I'm under the impression that you believe that I am one of your contemporaries? Is it me...am I misinterpreting what you just said? You're closer to your primal self and know better than just about anyone the laws of the jungle and who heads this pack of animals," Sinister's tone of disgust clearly audible, "so to speak. What does your animal instinct tell you now...right now? Fight or flight? Think very carefully Victor, before you answer."

Keen savage understanding was reflected in his eyes. Victor Creed lived by his most base emotions, never hesitating to act on his sadistic nature and right now his bloodlust threatened to overwhelm his most basic and primal instinct - survival. He wanted to surrender to his urges - to the insatiable hunger for the kill. He wanted to tear Sinister's throat out with his teeth and feel and taste the warm iron rich fluid splash against the back of his throat. Unfortunately, Sinister didn't possess an actual throat one with blood coursing through veins and arteries - no vital organs that could be torn out and feasted on. He wasn't even remotely human or even alive as far as he could tell - even with all his enhanced senses. He was just a big fucking blob of jelly and couldn't be hurt in any way that Victor was aware of. He'd also been on the receiving end of Sinister's great strength. With hardly any effort at all, Sinister had physically restrained him like he was a petulant schoolgirl. Sinister could hurt him in so many ways, beating him to death was easily the least frightening. Most of the team was made of clones. They had either been killed during a mission or Sinister had gotten rid of them for any number of reasons. Hell, Creed thought, Sinister had even managed to kill Malice, a psychic entity that Victor himself didn't believe could be killed. And he did it so easily, like it was just an afterthought.

He had no trouble admitting to himself that he was scared shitless of Sinister, damn scared of him. But now Sinister wanted him to go up against someone...that Sinister himself was scared of? He wasn't a fucking idiot.

"Perhaps a trip to the infirmary is what is needed. I believe that I possess some surgical equipment that could be used to locate and remove this heart of dissention," Sinister said, his threat deadly serious.

Creed knew he had no choice in the matter, there wasn't even any thought to saving face. When the time came, he would find a way to survive, and maybe Apocalypse and Sinister would just kill each other off.

Creed put his best, eat crow, smile on. "I gotta learn to keep my big mouth shut. I got no problems and when the time comes, I'm gonna do what I'm told - like my track record shows."

Sinister smiled, but it contained no warmth or humor. "That's very commendable Victor - but not good enough, I'm afraid. Kodiak, if you would be so kind." Sinister's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Kodiak reached behind himself into the cache of harpoons that he always carried, and using his mutant powers, charged the weapon to a white-hot glow. He did none of this by his own volition. It was obvious by his expression and the rigidity of his movements that he was completely in Sinister's thrall. The harpoon was not thrown but torn from his grasp and sailed across the room and landed squarely in Creed's chest.

"I must apologize to Kodiak. I appropriated some of his talents to teach Victor an important lesson," Sinister said apologetically. "I don't enjoy pitting family members against one another, but sometimes wayward children must be punished."

Creed was flat on the his back, a glowing spear protruding from a gaping wound in the center of his chest. A large patch of blood had quickly spread across his shirt and was dripping profusely onto the floor. He was conscious, but gasping for breath, and was struggling to sit up.

"As you may have already noticed, your healing factor is having a bit of trouble coping with Kodiak's weapon. His mutant powers which convert matter to bioenergy have an interesting effect of inhibiting some natural functions such as healing. No doubt eventually your healing factor would overcome this - in time, but you would suffer unnecessarily." Sinister motioned to Hairbag. "Michael, in the spirit of cooperation between the two teams, why don't you help Victor up and facilitate his journey to Kodiak so he can remove the offending item. Since Victor was the culprit, I only think it fair that Victor makes the effort to go to Kodiak and not the reverse, despite his injuries. I know it seems somewhat inconsequential but I try to be evenhanded even in dealing with the likes of...well all of you."

Hairbag moved quickly to carryout Sinister's instructions.

Sinister turned his back to both teams and opened a tesseract. "I want all of you to clean-up this repulsive mess. I believe it should help you perform as a team because nothing else has worked so far. I trust that there will no further doubts or hesitation about following any of my instructions?" Sinister asked without turning. His inquiry was met with total silence. "Very good oh and George," Sinister said glancing over his shoulder.

George shifted nervously and had been silently praying that Sinister hadn't heard or overlooked his lapse of good judgment. He swallowed fretfully and dreaded what might come next.

"Perhaps you should think things through a little more thoroughly before you openly condone Victor's somewhat rebellious ideas." Sinister walked through the tesseract, but not before gesturing over his shoulder towards George and then disappeared.

A terrified look crossed George's face as his mouth opened wide but no sound escaped. Like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz, Gorgeous George melted into a gray puddle that slowly spread across the floor, his facial features disappearing into an oozing mass. Sinister knew their powers so well and as he had many times in the past demonstrated how easily he could control them. He had simply reached into George's mind and removed his ability to maintain his cellular cohesion.

Sinister had learned long ago just how effective fear was what an extremely powerful motivator and means of control it permitted. His ability to instill fear was so effective simply because of his abilities. Mutants had come to rely almost solely on their powers becoming lazy and reliant on almost nothing else. So much of their personal security became tied to it. He did have a certain flair for psychological showmanship, but it was his capability to wrest control, or remove their mutant powers that seemed to instill the fear that allowed him to manage them properly. He supposed his skill at torture and the fact that he could kill them at any time was an important factor as well.

Sinister exited the tesseract and entered a circular shaped room with a high-domed ceiling. A grand piano and accompanying bench both positioned at the exact center of this room were the only things it contained. Decades ago, he had built this sanctuary with his own two hands. Because he was a perfectionist in everything he did, a great deal of attention had been given to the room design in order to optimize the acoustics. The physical properties of the room shape, volume, had been laboriously studied before anything was built. The acoustic characteristics of materials, which form the sound field, were all carefully selected in terms of sound insulation, absorption, reflection, scattering and sound radiation, all this was taken into consideration. These were the subjects of study, which were analyzed both theoretically and experimentally by Sinister, and his findings were put into practice when he built this room. Truth be told, he spent almost as much time here as he did in his laboratory. This room was his haven, where he was able to express a part of himself that he thought had been lost, a part of his soul that reveled in the creation of beauty for no real practical application other than personal pleasure. He often came here after he had dealt with the Marauders, Nasty Boys, or other distasteful individuals he was forced to deal with. It was a place he felt that he could cleanse himself, or shed his skin revealing another layer that was truer to his inner self. It was his attempt to reclaim a part of himself what he was like before, so long ago.

He prided himself on his ability to understand others, what motivated them; how they could be controlled, or manipulated and how ironic it was that the duality of his own nature puzzled him to no end. The manner in which he treated the Marauders or the Nasty Boys was in no way typical of a desire for power to control others was indeed a distinctive trait of humanity, particularly now in mutants whose wondrous abilities made that all the more possible. But he derived no pleasure, no satisfaction at controlling the dullards he employed to do his dirty work. No, for him, his appalling treatment of mutants like Sabertooth or George stemmed simply from the fact that he despised them.

They were nothing more than a bunch of untamed animals, wild, and ill-mannered. Even at their very best, they were small-minded, violent, uncultured, loutish. But it was foolish to deny that they represented a side of him, of Mr. Sinister, that he loathed. Yes, every human being had a dark side, but most were able to control it, hiding it in a murky recess of their soul. Others, a small and diseased percentage had no such restrictions, restraint wasn't even a consideration. The Marauders were an excellent example and for him it was if the stain on his soul, his personal evil was brought out into the light of day through the Marauders. Every personal shame, ugly blemish, and hidden flaw, was removed and conveyed into existence for all to see. He punished them for his own weakness, over and over, even death offering no escape. He sometimes believed that he had invented and perfected cloning for no other purpose than this. He even recognized that they served an additional purpose, allowing him the appearance of civility, the misconception that he did not have to sully his own hands with the things that they could do for him that there was a distinct difference because of this between them. How utterly preposterous, he thought. He had killed and tortured more people personally, or through others, over so many years than all of them combined. A part of him acknowledged this - that he was a thousand times worse than any of them, and had certainly never needed a group of dimwitted criminals to help him with any endeavor.And yet he surrounded himself with these miscreants anyway - why?

He no longer wished to ponder this - or question the motive behind his behavior, past or present. He sat down and placed his fingers on the keysand began to play.


The sound was rich, vibrant, the music uplifting yet contained some somber tones as well that somehow conveyed a deep yearning.

Henry loved classical music, cherished the music of the masters like Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, and Strauss. He played the piano quite well and had actually composed a few pieces himself. He never believed his compositions were very good, but he recognized good, even brilliant music when he heard it. The arrangement he was listening to now was incredibly complex; Henry doubted even with an indefinite amount of practice, he could ever play it himself. But there was Sinister of all people, his fingers dancing lightly across the keys, an obvious master, a virtuoso, an impresario. He gave himself over to the music, which seemed to come from him and not the instrument. His music was somehow on a new plane of spiritual depth, personal, almost too private to be shared or heard by anyone else. The melody infused the room with magic and communicated an emotional intensity Henry had never experienced before. Sinister played with his eyes closed, not a page of sheet music to refer to. He appeared to be completely immersed in his music, and was someplace else, someplace that he would rather be than where he was now. Once again Henry was struck and unable to reconcile this with the man who sat before him who could produce such beauty, and the heinous villain known as Mr. Sinister. This was a completely different person, someone who was born to do nothing else but play, and if that person had done nothing else with his life but create this one piece of magnificence, it would have been enough to assure him of his greatness and immortality.

Henry had heard the unexpected splendor of the piano sonata coming from a small room as he was walking around an as of yet, unexplored area of Sinister's complex. He entered the room and found Sinister seated at a magnificent instrument. It appeared to be an all-original Victorian artcase Steinway grand piano with beautiful handcarved legs, lyre, and carved music rack. Elegant trim surrounded the case, which was made of a wild flame mahogany. The piano had a beautiful ivory keyboard, which gleamed liked they were carved just yesterday.

"Is that a Steinway model "B"? Henry asked when Sinister had finished playing.

"Indeed. You have an excellent eye," Sinister responded, and placed his hands on his lap. "The piano was a gift from my mother on my tenth birthday."

Henry simply raised an eyebrow but was inwardly surprised on such a personal piece of information from Sinister. Henry also had trouble once again relating the man that was one of the X-Men's greatest enemies with the thought of that same person receiving a birthday gift from his mother no less and Sinister as a ten-year-old boy.

"And the piece?" Henry inquired further. "I cannot believe how intricate and complex that piano sonata is. I don't recognize it but it is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever heard, and the way you play is simply extraordinary. "

"You enjoy the way I play?" Sinister asked, seeming actually surprised. "I've always thought I was technically competent but never considered that I possessed any natural talent. I've even studied how the pianist can influence the music by what he does at the piano...other than of course playing the correct notes with the sequence and timing required of him. There was an actual study, which was documented in a 1937 that I found very interesting. Cambridge University Press published a book, Science & Music, by the noted physicist, Sir James Jeans, in which he presented in lay terms the known mathematical and physical foundations of music. Among other things, he denied the claim of the pianist that the quality of sound can be affected by the way the key is depressed. In striking a single note, the pianist has only one variable at his disposal - the force with which he strikes the key; this determines the velocity with which the hammer hits the wires and once this is settled all the rest follows automatically."

Sinister continued. "In spite of all this, musicians can clearly hear the variation in tone quality on an acoustic piano. Even laymen will say that they prefer the 'touch' - meaning tone - of one pianist to that of another. It is true that some pianists have made extravagant claims about their ability to express various emotions with a single note. Liszt occasionally wrote "vibrato" on his piano pieces. Apparently he believed, as have others, that rocking the finger on the key, as a violinist rocks his finger on a string, will produce such an effect. Since, after the string is struck, the only connection between key and either string or soundboard is via the massive frame, it would be difficult to explain such an effect. It is more likely that the performer's ear would be affected. Perhaps Liszt was sufficiently acute psychologically to realize that the sight of a rocking finger would convince some listeners that they were hearing a vibrato." Sinister abruptly stopped. "I sometimes get carried away and need to be reminded that my obsessions are not exactly the norm," Sinister finished with a tight smile.

Henry smiled in response thinking how the X-Men often tolerated his overly technical and long responses to simple questions or statements. But Henry was always fascinated to hear what Sinister had to say, not just because of the scientist in him, but so much of what Sinister said defined the man that he was. Even when Sinister expounded at length on the most mundane of subjects Henry believed that maybe something from that could be used either for the X-Men or against Sinister. "What ever the reason, the song and your playing are magnificent." Henry simply answered.

"Thank you. I wrote it overnight...for my son Adam. It was a gift for his fourth birthday. The last birthday gift I was able to give him I'm afraid," Sinister said softly, his voice trailing off like a train whistle moving away at a distance.

Henry was stunned. Another extremely personal revelation. Sinister had opened up the door. The setting seemed right to ask the next question.

If it is not too personal, how did your son die?

Sinister gave him a strange look and then simply answered his question.

"I am sure that you are familiar with Lysosmal Storage Diseases."

Henry nodded. "Although, that covers a rather broad variety diseases. All are inborn-errors of the metabolism resulting primarily from the absence of an enzyme whose target is a substance to be discarded from cellular tissues. This may result in mental and physical disability or in most cases shortened life spans," Henry said and trailed off softly.

"My son had Batten disease, Which is the most common form of a group of disorders called Neuronal Ceroid Lipofuscinoses or NCLs."

Henry nodded knowingly a grave expression on his face.

Sinister went on, a haunted and faraway expression on his face. "Over time, affected children suffer from mental impairment, worsening seizures, and progressive loss of motor skills. Eventually, children with Batten Disease become blind, bedridden, and unable to communicate and at the time...the disease was always fatal."

"I'm sorry," Henry offered up somewhat feebly.

Sinister simply nodded. "Four years. I spent a little more than four with my son. Such a short time," Sinister said wistfully. "He was an amazing boy and what I'm about to tell you will seem incredible, but it is all true."

Sinister stood and bade me to sit down and I did. He began to slowly pace around the room put and clasped his hands behind his back and began to speak. "You're the first and only person I have spoken to about this time in my life. The year was 1855. I think it was the last time that I was happy..."


The planetoid dangled in space, a gray barren rock, its surface, like the skin of an orange had been peeled away andscarred from years of weapons testing. The aura of a tomb hung over the landscape like a heavy morning fog. Large craters marred the terrain and not a single mountain or artificial structure could be found anywhere on the planet a fitting testament to the military might of the mighty Shi'ar Empire.

The face of the planet, once almost a sunless world, in that it had been completely enshrouded by a canopy of tree leaves and dense vegetation had been covered by shadows but was lush and crawling with life. The planet's land masses consisted of three huge continents, all of which were similar to Earth's Amazon rain forest in climate, only on a much larger scale. The variety of primitive lifeforms, animal, plant, and insect were incredibly diverse and almost impossible to account for and classify. Now that the surface was continually exposed to a merciless sun and a torrent of radiation nothing of that abundant life remained. There was no free-flowing water on the surface of the planet. What little water was left was confined to the poles and was frozen solid. Both the water and most of the atmospherehad beenburned or leeched away by the latest experimental Shi'ar high-energy particle weapons or the newest planetary bombardment devices. The temperature rarely even approached within a hundred degrees of the freezing point of water. There had been no sign of life native or otherwise in over two centuries. This was an ideal place to conduct a clandestine meeting between the two parties involved.

The Shi'ar attack dreadnaught dropped noiselessly from the sea of stars and gently set down on the planet's surface. A small dust cloud was the only sign that the huge spaceship had landed. An opening in the form of an access ramp smoothly descended from the seamless base of the ship. Almost immediately twenty Shi'ar imperial guardsman, more specifically Deathbird's personal guards filed out in order and took up preassigned positions. Ruthless, fanatically loyal, and expertly trained, this undersized group bristled with the latest Shi'ar weaponry. Each was outfitted with personal forceshields that protected them from the harsh environment and also safeguarded them from most any weapon. Individually, one guard would be more than a match for an entire battalion of troops and not susceptable to anything the US military had in its inventory. As a group, they would be virtually unstoppable and were the equivalent of a large army. Their charge, Cal'Syee Neramani, sister to the Majestrix Empress Lilandra, strode off the narrow platform with all the majesty of her family bloodline.

She was unaccustomed to waiting and before her renowned temper was aroused, a shimmering light heralded the arrival of the other party.

"Your Majesty," Apocalypse bowed his deep voice clearly audible even in the thin atmosphere. "I thought trust," he gestured towards her guards and smiled, "was the cornerstone of our arrangement."

"Lord Apocalypse," she answered with a predatory smile, as all of her imperial guardsman pointed their weapons directly at Apocalypse. "My retinue travel wherever I go, which is simply a show of protocol. As you can see they are overly protective. It is certainly not a reflection on you."

She walked forward narrowing the fifty-foot distance between them to about ten. Two of her guards peeled off from the rest of the group and matched her stride for stride and came to stop one pace behind her.

Her disdain for off-worlders was no secret, for humans in particular it was almost legendary. She considered them unimportant, primitive both culturally and technologically. Earth was a backwater planet and would never be a military threat to the great Shi'ar empire. Although this one Earther was different. He possessed a presence, and although she was loathe to admit it, she had a surprising underlying fear of him.

She looked at him dispassionately but once again could not refrain from staring because of how odd she felt he looked. His strange amalgam of both organic and machine technology as part of his being and in a way that her scientists were unable to classify, made him one of the most peculiar creatures she had ever encountered. And the technology at this disposal - his transport technology alone was unmatched by anything that the Shi'ar themselves had anywhere in the empire. She had dealt with enough powerful enemies to know that Apocalypse was extremely dangerous and there was no denying the resources he had at his disposal nor the amazing results he had produced.

"Our alliance has proven to be mutually beneficial. The intelligence you required was gathered and provided by my agents and you and your Skrull associates have infiltrated the highest recesses of the Imperium, which has put the throne in my grasp. Why would either of us have any reason to distrust one another at this point?" Deathbird asked with a completely reasonable tenor.

Apocalypse smiled menacingly. "Because my dear Deathbird, my Skrull associates have also been watching you quite closely. Yes, I gave you the technical ability to see through the shapeshifter's disguises as a gesture of goodwill and trust. I'm afraid that the technology is somewhat faulty or misleading. It only allows you to see the particular Skrulls I want you to see. Those who have gone unnoticed by you have reported some rather personally upsetting news to me." Apocalypse almost looked hurt. "You've come here to kill me today."

A flurry of emotions quickly crossed her face with the shocking realization that she had been deceived. They just as quickly disappeared and were replaced with one expression -as Deathbird smiled menacingly as well. "Since it would be ill-mannered of me to prove you wrong - you traitorous primitive, I'm not going to contradict your allegation, but confirm it. Kill him," she commanded.

Her imperial guards fired immediately. All impeccable marksmen, each shot hit Apocalypse either in the head or torso. The collective power of the energy weapons was blinding - his body shone like a piece of magnesium filament that had been placed in a flame. When the glow faded, Apocalypse stood unscathed and unharmed. In a way he seemed lifeless, and more closely resembled a huge unmovable monolith, unchangeable by either time or elements than a living being.

Before the Shi'ar guardsmen could fire again, hands the size of refrigerators picked up the imperial guardsmen on either side of Deathbird and smashed them together. As they made contact, their individual shields shimmered for a brief second and then collapsed under the force of the impact. Apocalypse's great hands came together...completely, as if they had been empty. The two Shi'ar guards disappeared and then a single unrecognizable mass fell to the dirt. At the same time, twin beams of energy exploded from Apocalypse's eyes and raked over the remaining guards, penetrating their shields as if they weren't there. They were all burnt to a crisp, reduced to nothing but ashes, individual wisps of black smoke was all that remained of the once living Shi'ar guardsman.

Terrified, Deathbird turned to run up the ramp and return to the safety of the attack ship. Powerful weapons, normally used only in space because of their enormous energy output turned, training their aim on Apocalypse. A massive hand shot by her before she could set foot on the ramp. There was a flash of energy followed by a huge explosion. Deathbird was picked up off her feet and violently thrown to ground. The only thing that had saved her life was the combination of her combat armor and forceshield.

Deathbird slowly returned to her feet and was incredulous as she saw her once proud attack ship completely engulfed in flame, destroyed. Her crew were either trapped inside or mercifully dead. The preeminent military Shi'ar space vessel, able to withstand the most inhospitable regions of space, able to resist and overcome a fleet of Kree or Skrull attack craft, destroyed by one lone being.

"That ship could raze an entire continent. The Shi'ar shields we carry are virtually impenetrable. How can you be from that primitive ball of mud and possess such power? What manner of creature are you?" Deathbird spat, her hatred of Apocalypse and frustration at seeing all of her plans ruined by a simple earthman. Her anger was so great that she even had momentarily forgotten that she was now alone with no manner of defense or escape.

A few words from Apocalypse and her predicament and memory were quickly restored with crystal clarity.

"Virtually impenetrable as is your own personal shield I take it...Empress," Apocalypse said ominously as he moved closer.

Deathbird would not be cowed by this Earth-beast. She held her ground. "You will rue the day you betrayed our alliance you deceitful animal. Do you think what you did here today makes any difference? The Pan-Galactic Shi'ar Empire consists of thousands of star systems. A single battle cruiser could lay waste to your entire solar system in less than one hour. You humans will never be allowed to reach the stars and spread your pestilence. You will remain on your single paltry world and kill each other off before the majority of the more advanced races ever even knew you existed. In less than a century, there will be no trace of your people or its pitiful excuse for a culture. If you do not destroy yourselves, the Shi'ar, Skrulls, Kree, Baddoon, Brood, or any other number of races will take your world for themselves. Your race is too immature, nothing but a group of squabbling barbarians. Earth and its inhabitants never had a chance nor should they be given one," she said with satisfying contempt.

"You are quite correct. Your technology, your ships, your people by shear numbers, humanity would have no chance. That's why humanity will never be directly involved in any of your wars. They will never have to be. You see my dear Deathbird, you were named Viceroy of the Kree territories because of me," Apocalypse said, this strange piece of information seemingly out of place considering what they had just been discussing.

Deathbird responded, a confused expression on her face. "What are you talking about? You make little sense mutant, and I believe that you're insane," Deathbird snapped.

"Many of my fellow humans and mutants would agree with you but I'm afraid I'm quite sane. I also understand that it is difficult to believe that I could have anything to do with your appointment either directly or indirectly - but I assure you it is true. And it will be your world and your great empire that will be reduced to dust and a distant memory.

"You may have some freak power, mutant, but you over-emphasize your role and abilities if you think I could believe that a mere terran could have the far reaching effects that you claim. You assert that you're a master manipulator behind a war between two star spanning empires, when you hold no rank, rule no land or people on even your own insignificant rock," Deathbird scoffed.

"You are correct, even I cannot claim sole responsibility for everything that has befallen your race." Apocalypse laughed. "You believe that you are the one who has made cruelty a game and treachery an art. I had someone in my employ who made your duplicitous machinations look like a bunch school children fighting over a ball in a playground. His genetic wizardry helped the Kree who worship nothing but science give birth to the Supreme Intelligence. Your God with his superior intellect concluded that through genocide an even superior race would arise." Apocalypse laughed again. "Where on earth, did he ever get that idea? With an intricate plan, a few well-placed Skrulls, several years of infiltration, and my infinite patience, the Shi'ar-Kree War was born. Thousands of worlds fell, the Kree themselves have almost become extinct, their homeworld of Hala, a shadow of what it once was.(1) Like a pack of Hyenas you fell on one another, killing with a bloodlust that even surprised me.

"Your claims are utter nonense - you're delusional," Deathbird answered, her tone angry but lacking conviction.

"Believe what you will, it matters not. Enough blood has been spilled that vengeance against one another is the only consideration that will occupy the lives of all of the alien races that would be a threat to humanity. I simply fan the flames. It will consume them for generations."

For the first time Deathbird paused and gave some consideration to Apocalypse's outlandish claims. His tone was she couldn't quite put it into words, but he simply did not sounded like a bragart. "To what end, so that humanity will be ignored left alone...?" she said her voice trailing of softly, a confused expression changing to one of understanding. She began to fully realize but was still unable to accept, the scope of Apocalypse's plan.

Like a meteor, Gladiator tore through the air and slammed into Apocalypse with an explosion of sound as the impact sent him crashing to the ground a thousand feet from where he stood. A huge cloud of dirt and dust rose into the air obscuring any sign of Apocalypse.

The Preator of the Imperial Guard, Gladiator, possibly the most powerful individual in the entire Shi'ar Empire, and one of the most powerful beings in the known universe stood before Deathbird. After traveling under his own power over an incredibly long distance in the harsh conditions of deep space, and after a cataclysmic collision with Apocalypse, he looked impeccable. Both his uniform and body had neither a mark or scratch on them.

Gladiator bowed deeply. "Princess," he addressed her deferentially. Although often at odds with Lliandra, her quest for power clouding her judgment and what was best for the empire, she was still sister to the Majestrix, and of the royal bloodline, holding rank of Viceroy of the Kree territories. If nothing else, Gladiator abided by and conformed to the strict protocols of Shi'ar tradition accorded to those of royal blood. He would treat her with the respect and obey her orders as long as they did not conflict with those of her sister the Empress. It did not mean that he trusted her.

"The Empress ordered me to watch over you to insure your continued well being. When you left Hala at such a late hour informing no one and in the attack Dreadnaught, I thought it best that I follow you. I managed to track you to this world, but was some distance behind you and arrived," he gestured to the remains of the dead guardsmen and the burning ship, "too late. What happened here and who is the creature that you met with?"

Although she was somewhat displeased, but not surprised by the fact that her sister was spying on her, she was overjoyed that Gladiator had destroyed Apocalypse. A moment ago she had that that her life was about to come to an end, now she only had to cover her treachery something she was quite skilled at doing. "He calls himself Apocalypse and is a mutant from Earth. I had uncovered a plot against the throne once again involving Skrulls. I only sought to learn how deep this plot went, uncovering what I could first before informing Lliandra herself," she spoke with utter sincerity.

Apocalypse emerged from the dirt cloud, materializing like an Egyptian monolith from a fading desert sand storm. He appeared more massive, marching forward like a huge locomotive unable to be deterred from its course. "What a wonderful tale you tell little bird."

Deathbird hissed. Impossible. How could this terran survive a blow like she just witnessed from Gladiator. Just how powerful was this mutant?

Apocalypse turned towards Gladiator. "Not very sporting of you striking me from behind," he rumbled.

"Even in warfare or combat, truth and integrity can be maintained in a fashion between men of honor. I owe no such consideration to a vile creature like yourself. Although these imperial guardsmen's loyalty might lie more with Deathbird than with the throne, they were Shi'ar and didn't deserve this indignity. How you accomplished this," he gestured towards the carnage, "and survived my initial attack terran, I do not know. But I do know that you will not be leaving here alive."

"You speak of honor, I am alone and was attacked first, and I assure you Preator," Apocalypse smiled with cold certainty, "it will be you who will join the rest of your alien filth into the dust of this long dead world."

Anger overwhelmed all of Gladiator's senses. The terran's death was no longer just his duty but had become more personal. The death and dishonor suffered by the imperial guards due to this offworlder as well his continued disrespect for all things Shi'ar was intolerable. He would take great pleasure in killing him with his own hands.

Without exchanging another word, Gladiator rushed forward, or more aptly, flew forward, his feet barely off the ground and furiously delivered a series successive overhand blows. Apocalypse skillfully and deftly deflected the mammoth strikes and was able to weather the onslaught with relative ease. He seemed more galvanized than weakened by the attack, but simply chose to stand and not press an attack of his own as if to emphasize the futility of Gladiator's assault.

Gladiator was stunned for a brief moment that any being could withstand such a physical assault and stepped back to change his tactics. Twin beams of energy lanced out from his eyes sizzling the very air separating them. Apocalypse's right forearm morphed in response into a medieval shaped shield that was large enough to cover his entire body. Using the shield to conceal his strike, Apocalypse stepped in and drove his foot into the gut of his opponent. The alien flew back, a grunting gasp escaped his lips as he landed hard on the ground. The great and supremely powerful Preator of the Imperial Guard appeared foolish sitting on his hindquarters with a look of incredulity on how his attack did not kill or even hurt Apocalypse.

Changing his strategy or endeavoring to develop one, he immediately employed another one of his vastarray of powers and attempted to see through Apocalypse to perhaps detect a weakness. Much like an X-ray machine that saw through the outer layers of skin to enable doctors to see the denser skeletal components beneath, Gladiator adjusted his vision, traversing the entirety of the electro-magnetic spectrum in seconds. It was an attempt to determine why his blows and thermoscopic eyebeams had no effect on Apocalypse. He quickly discovered why he was unsuccessful. He concluded that Apocalypse's outer shell, whatever the material was, was just too dense...which was impossible. He had never come across a material, let alone another living being that was impervious to his eyebeams. His brief reverie was rudely interrupted.

Apocalypse stepped forward to press his attack, and Gladiator automatically countered, his years of training and fighting taking over as he grabbed Apocalypse's ankle and used it as an anchor to swing up and around to deliver a vicious blow to his kidney's.

Once again, a blow that could have toppled a mountain, seemed to have no effect on Apocalypse. He responded with incredible speed and clamped onto Gladiator's wrists and lifted him off the ground, high over his head as if he weighed almost nothing. Apocalypse then drove him to the ground, dirt and rocks flew into the air as a small crater formed from the brutal impact.

Deathbird was knocked off her feet by the shockwave. Rocks both small and large bounced off her shield once again preventing her from injury. The deadly projectiles would have cut her in half if not forthe Shi'ar technology.

Releasing his crushing grip from Gladiator's wrists, Apocalypse wrapped his hands around Gladiator's throat and sunk his fingers of both hands into the flesh of his neck. Apocalypse anticipated the blow from Gladiator's liberated hands and grunted when they came. The blows were thrown with massive force, fueled by desperation in an almost frantic attempt to dislodge Apocalypse's choke hold from around his neck. With an incredible display of power, Gladiator straining from the effort, managed to fly first one foot, then two feet off the ground. But some unknown force applied by Apocalypse would not allow Gladiator to gain any momentum or altitude and they came crashing down into a stone outcropping. But Gladiator was still unable to extricate himself from Apocalypse's unbearable hold.

Again, fueled by a fundemental survival instinct, Gladiator attained a new level of strength and managed to roll on top of Apocalypse, reigning thunderous blows onto his head. With one hand, Apocalypse released his hold on Gladiator's throat and attempted to block some of Gladiator's prodigious strikes. Apocalypse morphed the fingers of the hand that still clung to Gladiator's neck into five razor sharp blades. Slowly under the colosal pressure of Apocalypse's grip they began to penetrate Gladiator's incredibly dense hide. Gladiator began to howl with pain and frustration as blood began to first seep and then spray from his wounds. Moisture sloshed between the two of them making it impossibly slippery for Gladiator to find any purchase for either a defensive or offensive strike. They rolled together as more of Gladiator's blood fountained into the air and speckled the ground as they splashed through the blood soaked soil.

Deathbird stood open-mouthed and stunned. Before this point, she would have thought that for Gladiator to sustain physical injury let alone of this magnitude would have been out of the question. But to be soundly defeated in battle would have been categorically impossible, to a terran no less, ridiculously hopeless. Her surprise quickly changed to panic with the realization that his defeat also meant her certain death as well.

At the sight of so much of his own blood, Gladiator's confidence began to falter and with it, his strength and invulnerability. He had fought individuals that spanned the galaxy - all with incredible powers, and had clashed with super-powered beings with incalculable physical strength, and not one of them had shed a drop of his blood. Yet somehow this alien had accomplished the impossible- and had done it easily without even the hint of injury. But he was the Preator of the Imperial Guard, warrior born and bred, surrender was not and never was an option. He would fight with all his body and soul in defense of the empire and his empress.

At that very same moment, with Gladiator's defeat looming, Apocalypse felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him and arealization or confirmation what he was like at his core. While he was engrossed in the heat of battle, at the heart of turmoil, pain and blood, it was here and only here that he was happy andin familiar territory. A spiritual communion known only to true and untainted warriors - it was here and in no other place that he actually allowed himself to feel a modicum of pleasure. It was a place where his inexhaustable self-control could be put aside for a short time, topermit himself some sort of relief or reprieve. Here death was the only escape, and the simplicity or purity of no choices or alternatives - kill or be killed, nature's most fundamental tenet was Apocalypse's concept of ultimate beauty. Here he had found the world he searched for - a world that did not contain any pretenses or fascades. It was at that wild place at the center of a battle to the death, where he had found a home.

Ignoring his bloodloss and pain, with renewed effort, Gladiator shook with a cold rage that knew no bounds. He thrashed wildly for release and grasped Apocalypse's wrist and with a herculean effort, somehow managed to pull his hand and fingers from his neck. But once again his hand slipped on his own blood and he lost his grip. Apocalypse shifted his weight and placed his foot on Gladiator's chest regaining some leverage and grasped and pulled Gladiator's own wrist with such ferocity that his shoulder came out of its socket and the arm was torn free from his body.

Gladiator let out a sickening wail of pain as the arm tore loose and Apocalypse casually tossed the arm aside into a puddle of blood soaked mud.

Somehow he found the will and driven by a pain-wracked body, he swung his remaining arm with all the force he could muster at Apocalypse's tree-trunk wide legs. He still had the presence of mind to strike behind Apocalypse's knees and managed to sweep him off his feet. Eyebeams that could melt the densest Shi'ar materials and turn them into butter sliced into Apocalypse's chin.

Apocalypse raised his arm once again morphing it into a thick rectangular slab, blocking Gladiator's deadly eyebeams. He quickly managed to get his feet under his body allowing him the leverage to execute his next move.

In a blur of movement and transformation Apocalypse lunged forward, the top of his head morphing into a wicked two-foot blade. Apocalypse's hands once again caught hold of Gladiator's throat and leg, and crouching low, he drove forward blindly, picking him up and ramming Gladiator's body into the flat rock surface that stretched for miles and was once an enormous mountain range. Apocalypse's head, spear shaped, impaled Gladiator, the razor sharp tip sinking into his belly so deeply that Apocalypse's eyes were awashed in blood. His legs kept driving, holding the flailing body in place. His head twisted voraciously, almost hungrily, the sharped spear shape that was the top of Apocaypse's head disappeared into the newly rended hole. His head worked his way into the aliens anatomy, into gut and organs, spearing and tearing, then ripped from side to side. Gladiator's jaws opened spasmodically during this carnage, possibly attempting to scream in pain, but no sound came from his mouth...only a bubbling froth of thick blood.

Apocalypse withdrew his head, with a sick slurping sound, thick globs of blood as well as an assortment of internal organs coated and were stuck along the length of the blade. Apocalypse stood and backed away, a flash of light and his head returned to its normal shape and the blood and gore were burned away as if they had never been there. In an almost classical pose of the conqueror over the vanquished, Apocalypse stood over Gladiator, who was somehow still upright but in a kneeling position and despite his grievous wounds, would neither fall nor lose consciousness. Suddenly, awkwardly, Gladiator's hand brushed across the huge gaping wound and then stared at his blood-stained hand as if he could not understand where it came from. He also seemed unaware that this was his only remaining arm. Shreds of bloody skin and a short bony stump was the only thing left of his other arm. His hand then went limp and fell by his side. Gladiator's head followed and slowly fell forward, his chin coming to rest on his chest.

"You are a true warrior Gladiator, and if it were not for the events that I have set in motion on your planet that you would no doubt uncover and might prevent, I would let you live as a token of my respect for your fighting spirit."

Gladiator raised his head through the haze of pain and blood. He was unable to speak but managed to spit a bloody glob of saliva which splattered across Apocalypse's chest.

"Defiant to the end. Truly remarkable," Apocalypse said almost reverently. Apocalypse placed one hand on the top of Gladiator's head and the other under his chin. He tilted Gladiator's head up at a slight angle so that they could look at each other eye to eye - warrior to warrior. He violently twisted Gladiator's head snapping his neck and killing him instantly. Instead of dropping him unceremoniously and callously on the dirt, he gently lowered his body onto the ground there was an attentiveness to his movements that was at odds with the brutality of the last ten minutes.

Apocalypse slowly turned towards Deathbird. "I am loathe to kill a defenseless woman, it just does not seem humane. But then again, you're not human, and you've left me no choice. I believe the God that you Shi'ar pray to is named Ky'thri. I suggest you pray to her now."

Apocalypse moved closer and to her credit, she did not shrink or move away. Insane anger seeped into her features. Like a giant bird of prey, she spread her wings and sharpened talons, and shrieking a Shi'ar curse, leapt at Apocalypse.

Apocalypse reached for her and simply smiled.


References:

1 X-Men Unlimited #5