Sinister's London, Undiscovered Location

The Past, Ten Weeks Ago

Awareness came slowly as her immediate surroundings blearily came into focus. She concentrated on the plate set before her. It was a shallow bowl, half-full of a watery, gruel-like substance. Her hand rested on the tabletop beside her plate, her fingertips on the handle of a tarnished silver spoon. She blinked slowly at the vignette before her: chipped white china plate, spotted spoon, stained linen napkin. The rest existed in a sort of fog. Except for his voice. There was always that, his voice droning on in the background, filling the empty spaces of her mind. She would follow the commands he issued, accept his truths, his vision; a truth she believed, a vision she saw. Until the moment she lifted the spoon bearing its delivery of milk-gray gruel to her lips.

Her mouth remained steadfastly closed, lips pressed together. Her throat constricted, her stomach revolted.

"Sacrifices, in times such as these, must be made," he was saying. "Why, I recall a time during the war–," here he paused to sip from a glass of wine, "when a man would be fined for eating more than two courses during luncheon. As if the sight of a woman in bloomers weren't enough to put one off his meal. Ghastly times."

With a slight tremor in her hand, she set the spoon back into the bowl. She drew a deep breath, hoping to settle her stomach. She could hear the soft clink of metal on porcelain, the gentle tap of a glass being set onto the tabletop. The others were eating, unaware of the sudden onset of nausea she was experiencing. She blinked rapidly, hoping to clear the lingering fogginess from her vision.

"My dear, are you not hungry?" he asked politely.

With some reluctance, she turned her head to look at him. He was seated at the head of the table, his face a perfect pale mask of contrived sincerity. Contrary to his expression and tone of voice, his dark red eyes appeared to be pleased, perhaps amused, at her discomfort.

"We mustn't waste," he continued pompously and gestured at her plate. She noted that unlike her own meal, his food had not been rationed. Even as he looked at her, the butler replaced his soup with the fish course. He selected the appropriate fork from beside his plate and held it in one elegant, long-fingered hand.

"I am unwell," she told him and placed her trembling hands in her lap.

The other three at the table turned to regard her with curiosity, then looked at one another in confusion. They were a trio of red-haired birds, crooning to one another in a show of concern.

He considered her a moment. "Are you?" he said finally. "Perhaps then you should consult with the physician."

"No," she answered quickly and perhaps with too much force. "No," she repeated softly. "I–I just need some rest. If you'll excuse me."

She stood just a fraction of a moment before he gave his consent. She disguised her urgency by smoothing her hands down her skirts. She declined her head to him respectfully before stepping back from her chair.

"My dear," he said to her. "You are not yourself."

"My apologies...my–my...sire," she replied demurely and swallowed the bitter taste of bile building at the back of her throat.

He waved dismissively at her. "Do get some rest, then."

She slowly turned, feeling his gaze on her back as she began to walk from the room. Vaguely, she saw the three others turn their heads to follow her progress towards the large double doors to the dining hall. A manservant opened one of the doors to allow her to pass into the hall. She continued her slow, mincing strides down the carpeted hall until the door closed behind her. She turned and put her hand to the wood-paneled wall, then sagged against it as she gasped. She leaned her head against the wall and struggled to control her breathing. Somewhere down the darkened hall, a grandfather clock ticked out the seconds.

After a few moments she straightened and made her way towards her chamber. She put her gloved hand to the latch and pushed the door open. Inside, her room was dark save for the soft orange glow of a banked fire in the grate. She stumbled over to her bed and fell onto the mattress. She clutched at her belly, which cramped suddenly. She moaned and pressed her face into the bed linens. The bedclothes were musty and damp. Everything here, so far below the earth's surface, was damp. She could not know for how long she had failed to recognize it, how long she had been oblivious to the darkness around her.

She felt both hot and cold at once. She tore at the fastenings at the back of her dress, heard several stitches pop as she pulled her arms free of the sleeves. She was left in her undergarments. There was a moment spent looking at all the ribbons and yards of cotton fabric before she began to pull at those as well. One slipper was kicked from a stockinged foot. Once she had freed herself from most of the ridiculous trappings of Victorian garb, she fell back into the bed, exhausted. She closed her eyes.

Where was she? How long had she been here? Why was she here?

If the engines break, half our species will assume a female form so we can continue to reproduce while we get the engines back to full steam, he had said.* The engines being the machines that once populated Sinister's London with clones of himself. But now that the engines had all been destroyed...

She gasped and clutched her arms around her middle, curling up in the center of the four-poster bed. Even through the thick wooden door, she could still make out the ticking of the clock. She concentrated on the sound until the pain passed. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When she woke, it was morning. She could tell because the room was marginally lighter. The light beyond the window was pale pearly gray, filtered through the dense sooty fog that hung in the streets outside. The cavern that served as their sky dripped a constant, gritty rain. She sat up slowly. The fire had burned itself out. She realized she was bleeding from between her legs. She realized she could feel. What she felt was relieved.

~ oOo ~

She was called Five though there were only four of them now. Number Four had died, and Five had felt that too. Four was perhaps the best of them, an altruist, braver than the other four. She had died so that the others could escape as the Phoenix Force had burned their former home. Number One was the leader, though they had been arbitrarily numbered from the start. But One took it upon herself to be the den mother. When the soft knock came at her door, Five knew it was One who had come to visit.

"Sister...," One said as she opened the door a fraction. Her pale face appeared in the opening. "Are we well?"

Five sat up and pulled the bed coverings over her nakedness. It took her a moment to form a response. "We're...better, thank you."

One entered the room, bearing a breakfast tray in her hands. There was a slice of dry toast on a plate and a cup of tea set on the tray. Five resented One's simpering smile and the practiced gesture of kindness. One's eyes took in Five's appearance. Five saw the flicker of disapproval in One's gaze. One enjoyed her role as mother hen, not because she was particularly nurturing, but that it gave her a feeling of control and superiority over the remaining three.

"A bit of breakfast?" One asked and set the tray upon Five's bedside table. One then raised her hand to the bell pull beside Five's bed. "Shall we ring for the doctor?"

It was all Five could do to stop herself from knocking One's hand aside. Instead she said: "We are indecent. Please bring a dressing gown."

One's mouth crimped with displeasure. She did not like to be issued commands. She forced her face back into its usual pleasant blandness. "Of course."

As One glided over to the garderobe, Five picked up the teacup from the tray and sipped from it. Her nose wrinkled. Earl Grey, she did not care for it. One returned with a dressing gown and helped Five into it.

"We must eat," One told Five, satisfied to be the one in control again. "We'll feel better then. When we are finished with breakfast, join us in the sitting room."

Five pulled the neck of her gown closed and nodded her affirmation, though she wanted nothing but to continue to lay in bed. One slipped from the room and closed the door with a gentle click. Five picked up her toast from the tray and walked to the window. The rippled glass gave her a murky view of the world outside. Below was the rear of the manor, where there was a small square courtyard surrounded by high walls. It was the most unattractive view from any of the rooms, but as she was Number Five, she had chosen her living quarters last after the better options were taken. The courtyard was where the kitchen and household help mingled. There was a stable, or what would have been a stable if there were any horses. Instead, the stable housed a Wolseley Limousine that His Majesty used to survey his much-diminished kingdom.

Down in the courtyard, the limousine driver appeared to be in agitated conversation with the butler. Five pressed her face closer to the glass to peer down at the scene below. From the emotions she could glean from the pair, she could sense that the driver was irritated and perhaps jealous. The butler's emotions mirrored the driver's, however, he was also resolute. He was devoted to his master, Sinister Prime, and would not voice his qualms in whatever matter had upset the driver. Five was curious. What would upset two of His Majesty's closest servants? She dare not pry further for fear of detection. She wanted to keep her newfound thoughts and feelings closely guarded.

Five drew away from the window and moved to her vanity. She sat on the padded stool in front of the mirror. She watched her reflection as she slowly chewed on the bite of toast. She forced herself to swallow, then set the toast aside. Five plucked out the pins in her hair that she had forgotten to remove the night before. Her hair spilled down her back like a long red flag. Five picked up the silver-backed hairbrush and pulled it through her hair. With her hair brushed out, she sat silently for a few moments. Her eyes strayed back to the window. On her vanity was a small chinoiserie box. Her hand moved almost of its own accord to the box and lifted the lid. Five didn't realize the small pair of scissors was in her hand until she turned back to the mirror. It was almost as if her reflection had taken on a life of its own. Her reflection's face was a hard mask of anger, her green eyes flashed with dangerous defiance. Five felt her left hand rise to the nape of her neck. Her fingers pulled forward a small lock of hair. The scissors in her right hand moved towards her scalp. There was a soft slithery sound of metal on metal as the scissors closed down on the lock of hair. Five found herself wrapping the long lock of red hair around her left fingers. Her hair had never been cut before. She was shocked at her own audacity, but also thrilled with her small act.

She trembled slightly as she rose and tossed her hair clipping into the fireplace. Her right hand continued to open and close the pair of scissors. Five retrieved her garments from where she had cast them onto the ground. She would have to dress herself. Before today, it had been easy to choose what to wear. An unspoken consensus between the four remaining clones would be reached and they all would appear before His Majesty for inspection like perfectly matched dolls. Today, Five had closed herself off from the other three. There would be no agreement. Five dropped the dress where it lay on the floor in a heap of silk and crinoline.

She saw that her bed linens were stained with blood. Eventually, a servant would come to her chamber and tend to the fire, then change her sheets. She'd be found out. Five pulled the sheets from the bed and crumpled them into a ball. She opened her chamber door and peered out into the hallway. It was empty. Stealing silently from the room, she crept down the hall to Two's living quarters. Five opened the door. By now, One, Two, and Three would be in the morning room doing some vapid activity as approved by His Majesty. Five stepped into Two's room and made towards the bed. She stripped the mattress and put her own soiled linens onto the bed in a heap. Five went to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She saw which dress had been taken from its place; missing from the wardrobe was the cream-colored day gown.

Yuck, she thought. It was a simple affair, a silk cream shift that made her complexion look positively awful. At least she wouldn't require assistance dressing this morning.

Five returned to her room with the sheets she had stolen from Two. Once one of the servants spotted the blood, he would report it to the physician. Two would be the one to visit the physician today, not Five. Of the four of them, Two was the worst. She was power-hungry, vindictive, and jealous. She loathed One, needled Three, and scornfully envied Five. Five thought little of putting the dreadful physician's sights on Two to spare herself from an examination. Five could at least give herself a little more time to...to what?

Escape, her mind whispered.

Five's hands began to shake uncontrollably. Her breath quickened. It made it more difficult than usual to dress herself. She forwent her undergarments and kicked them under the bed with a slippered foot. Five picked up the small handled kit that contained her embroidery supplies. Embroidery was one of the few activities that His Majesty approved for the four female clones he had remaining in his collection. Five opened the kit's lid to see her last piece of work. It was a circle of red roses, their vines and leaves intertwined to create a vignette. Inside the floral circle were the words stitched out in black: Fuck This.

Five gasped. When had she made this? She hastily picked up her embroidery needle and picked out the stitches. Five used her thumbnail to smooth down the holes left in the fabric. She would have to be more careful. She would have to be mindful to mimic her sisters' actions lest her defiant thoughts be discovered. Five straightened and picked up her kit. She would have to join her sisters in the morning room if she didn't want to raise suspicion.

As she closed the bedroom door behind her, Five heard the sound of a voice from the rooms downstairs. It was his voice, as usual. She recognized the superior cadence of his tone while at lecture. He was monologuing to an audience. The audience supplied the questions where appropriate, so that His Majesty could continue his diatribe. Five walked soundlessly down the corridor towards the ticking grandfather clock. She turned to face the marble staircase that descended to the tiled floor below. With her hand on the banister, she tiptoed down the stairs. His Majesty and his attendants were in the library, which was partitioned off from the main hall by an ornate wooden screen. Five positioned herself behind it to listen. Her eye peered through the crack between two of the panels.

"His Majesty intends on keeping this...this one?" one of the attendants inquired politely. It was the butler attempting to phrase his doubts as courteously as possible.

"A royal court would not be complete without a fool," His Majesty said merrily. "And our resources are greatly diminished since our encounter with the Phoenix Force."

"However did this one survive?" His Majesty's footman asked. "The menagerie was destroyed entirely. The clones all spent as cannon fodder."

"This one appears to be defective," His Majesty said. "Well...more defective than the others. As to its survival, that comes as no surprise. In the event of an apocalyptic catastrophe, I speculate that the few survivors would include cockroaches and this one."

Five leaned closer to the screen. She could not see who His Majesty was talking about. His Majesty's back was to her, blocking her view of the room. After the Phoenix Force's assault on Sinister's London, previously located under the earth in Alaska, most of His Majesty's assets had been destroyed.** All his equipment, his species, and all the clones he kept in his menagerie were burned. Little survived other than Sinister himself. Sinister always survived. Right now, he was supervising as his footman appeared to be straightening the cravat of the unseen clone.

"But what do you intend on doing with it?" said the driver, who was decidedly less polite.

His Majesty seemed not at all bothered by his driver's outspokenness. In fact, he seemed amused. "I intend to keep it."

"As a pet?"

Sinister laughed. "Yes. My dear little poppet." He reached out and patted the clone's head. "Make no mistake. He has his uses."

Five felt her skin crawl and she gave an involuntary shudder.

"You see," Sinister continued, his arms raised to capture the clone's skull between his hands, "my predecessor failed to recognize the repercussions of altering this one's brain. The parietal lobe, here, on top of the head towards the back..." Sinister tilted the clone's head forward as if to peer straight through its skull and into its brain. "Develops a picture of the world we see around us. Spatial imagining...an understanding of three-dimensions. This one's mutation included a highly developed parietal lobe, one that could see not only in three-dimensions, but into the fourth."

"The fourth being time?" asked the footman.

"The fourth being time," Sinister continued as if the footman had not spoken. "Combined with his command over energy at the atomic level, he was able to traverse space and time at will. As well as understand the probability of his actions on affecting the future, and every possibility."

"He was?"

"An unforeseen complication, some inherent flaw, weakness, or injury left him unable to control his powers," Sinister said.

"And so my predecessor severed some connections between the parietal lobe and the frontal...this area," Sinister said and pointed. "The area responsible for planning, organizing, and understanding actions and consequences."

"So basically, he's an idiot," the driver said.

"You are correct, in part. Though I believe the term has fallen out of favor, I would label him an idiot savant. When the connections between the parietal and the left frontal lobe were severed, the loss of function in the planning circuits accelerated growth in the right frontal lobe. This area is credited with creativity, the ability to learn and accept new ideas and concepts. The brain compensated for its loss by developing new skills allowing it to cope." While Sinister spoke, he began to walk and gesticulate. He passed by the screen where Five was hidden.

"My resources may be limited, but all is not lost. Merely misplaced. The research conducted those years ago by my predecessor and his treacherous companion known at the Black Womb was appropriated by SHIELD.*** The equipment, the careful note-taking, the biological samples, all is safely stored...we can rebuild from our very foundation," Sinister said grandly and swept out his arms. "All we need to do is retrieve it."

"And you think this one capable?" the butler asked dubiously.

Sinister stepped aside, giving Five full view of the library and its occupants. "In such difficult times, we mustn't waste...," His Majesty, the Sinister Prime said. "We must take advantage of every opportunity. When we are in possession of a thief, we make use of it." Sinister held his clone firmly by its chin. "Won't we, Poppet?" he asked the clone.

The clone's eyes were trained on his master, a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. Those black and red eyes strayed to where Five hid, his gaze meeting her own through the crack in the screen. Five's heart leapt and she gasped. The clone's grin broadened.

The driver muttered: "Our future hinges on this idiot." A moment later, the driver was dead.

"At the very least I'll need a new driver," Sinister Prime said and set the driver's hat upon the clone's head. "There now, LeBeau, don't you look smart?"

~ oOo ~

*Uncanny X-Men Vol. II #14

**Uncanny X-Men Vol. II #17

***New X-Men Vol. II #41/2