A/N: The epic conclusion.
The summer sun was descending into the horizon, bleeding a trail of orange and pink in its wake. Th day's previous heat was giving way to slightly cooler evening air, and a fresh breeze lightly ruffled the skirt around Jean Grey's black dress as she walked, her high heels clicking on the paved path.
The cemetery was quiet: there were no mourners present beyond herself. The orderly, dignified cemetery was located in an untroubled setting, with its associated church nearly two miles away, in a similarly tranquil area. Despite the remote site, the fixtures of the churchyard were in excellent condition, with a picturesque fence, neat rows of gravestones, and perfect landscaping, with bright flowers lining the fence's perimenter. Shadows stretched beyond peaceful headstones, elongated by the fading light, giving the still scene just an inkling of sadness as the day darkened.
Jean halted in front of the newest addition to the cemetery, buried in the Xavier family plot: a light gray headstone with the simple inscription, "Jean-Paul", and below that, the brief epitaph, "His sacrifice will not be forgotten."
For a few moments, Jean stood in silence, contemplating the grave's occupant. She had barely known Jean-Paul when he had died in her arms earlier that week; he been introduced to the Xavier Institute while the X-Men were under the influence of Norman Osborn's sleeper agent, "Carlie Cooper." And yet, he had unhesitatingly given his life to destroy Osborn, saving hers in the process.
Troubled, Jean twisted a strand of her fiery red hair around her finger. If she had been in Jean-Paul's shoes, would she have accepted death in order protect a virtual stranger? The thought circled in her mind, and Jean shivered involuntarily despite the dusk's warmth, which had already brought sweat to her porcelain skin.
"Problems, princess?" Inquired a husky voice with a hint of a Southern drawl.
Long hair fanning out behind her as she whirled, Jean found Rogue leaning against a mausoleum, a few paces behind her, watching Jean contemplatively. Her outfit retained its usual dark palette but was more subdued than usual, her makeup toned down and other edgy goth and punk embellishments absent: her typical patterned leggings and combat boots had been substituted for plain tights with black suede boots. With her loose hair and simple but sophisticated outfit, Rogue looked unexpectedly adult.
Clutching the bouquet in her hand, Jean did her best to smile at Rogue. Though the other girl was years younger than her, Jean was unsettled by her unusual seriousness and cynicism, with consideration to her age. Rogue remained aloof and sardonic in spite of Jean's continuous attempts to befriend her.
"Just thinking," Jean responded calmly.
There was a short silence between them, broken by Rogue.
"I wouldn't dwell too much on it, if I were you. The entire incident was utterly weird. You'd do best to move on. It's easier to adapt and overcome if you're not so attached to it all."
Rogue's cold words raised a feeling of vague annoyance in Jean, but she didn't have the heart to be argumentative. "I'll just be a few minutes." She stooped down to lay the bouquet at Jean-Paul's grave.
"Pink carnations?" Rogue asked, arching an eyebrow.
Jean nodded. "The flower of gratitude."
Rogue was silent at that, and surprisingly, she waited for Jean to walk back with her, the comrades side by side.
Unbeknownst to them, a pair of cold eyes watched the two go.
All was quiet at the moment in Stephen Strange's Sanctum Sanctorum, he himself entranced by a tome detailing the practices of Asgardian magic. After a long day of battling mythical monsters, he was grateful for the opportunity to dress down and relax on the sofa with a good book. His attention was only diverted from the ancient volume when the heavy wooden door to library slammed shut. He glanced up to see Wong approaching him with a tray of food. A quick check of the grandfather clock told him that the hour was nearing nine o' clock at night.
"By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, is that time already?" Shaking his head, Stephen set aside his thick book on the polished coffee table before him. "Time flies when battling inter-dimensional Lovecraftian horrors most of the day."
"You must be getting old," Wong told him, setting the silver tray down on the table and giving him an ironic smile, which Stephen returned.
Stephen noticed that in addition to the meal, a white letter envelope also occupied the tray. Mail was infrequent, as most of Stephen's associates had other methods of contacting him than through the post. Curious, he drew the letter to him and opened it, noting the very slight weight to envelope, but not before scanning the return address: a Jean Grey in the Westchester area of New York. Upon skimming the letter itself, his eyes widened.
"Is something amiss?" Wong asked, observing his old friend's behavior.
Drawing a silver religious medal out of the envelope, Strange exhaled slowly. "This young woman is writing to me from her boarding school for gifted students, apparently because a classmate of hers died in a tragic accident."
Wong frowned. "How does that involve you?"
Slowly, Stephen folded the letter. "This Jean Grey is under the impression that her deceased classmate is my grandson." His blue met Wong's startled gaze. "Wong, I don't have a grandson."
Horrified, seventeen-year-old Peter Parker, wearing the guise of Spider-Man, stared at the warm corpses of the mobsters, then turned to the teenage girl who had casually mowed them down mere seconds ago. "Why . . . ?"
"They were criminal scum," she said flatly. "They deserved what was coming to them."
He could hear the blood dripping from their bodies onto the floor, but he did his best to concentrate on the girl. She seemed to be his age, and what's more, something about her was very familiar, with her blonde hair and blue eyes.
Nausea welled in Peter's stomach as he took in the ravaged bodies around him and then the unperturbed girl who had killed all of them in cold blood. "Who are you?" He asked, as a loud humming pierced through his eardrums.
The girl looked at him, but they were interrupted by the arrival of a young woman, perhaps a secretary of the mobsters. She opened the door and barely had time to gasp at the gore-strewn room; before Peter could react, Carlie had fired her gun multiple times, blowing her away, too.
"I'm Gwen Stacey," she replied unceremoniously, glancing appraisingly at the young secretary's motionless body.
Peter could only gaze at her in shock for a moment, then turned away, barely rolling up his mask in time to empty the contents of his stomach.
Night fell, and the moon rose, casting its pale light over the treeless cemetery. A silhouette emerged from the shadows, moving fluidly in the darkness. The dim light revealed this figure to be a handsome young man, perhaps college age, wearing a simple pair of jeans with a T-Shirt, his feet clad in heavy black motorcycle boots. The most unusual feature about him was his spiky black hair, styled into a mohawk.
Striding through the rows of headstones, shovel in hand, he reached the plot for which he was searching and promptly used the shovel to burrow into the ground. He proceeded to dig, his steady pace extraordinarily fast. In a span of less than ten minutes, he had completely excavated the casket. A pair of claw-like blades on each hand popped out of his knuckles, and a few slashes at the latches allowed him to open the lid.
"Wake up, Johnny Boy," he said with a feral smile, his steely eyes gleaming.
The casket's occupant, who was arranged with his arms folded over his shoulders as per a pharaoh in a sarcophagus, blinked open a pair of blue-gray eyes. "Daken?"
"You bet," Daken replied, lighting a cigar. "You know, Jean-Paul, I really like your gravestone. It's nice that Xavier was grateful enough that he buried you in his family plot and wrote about your 'sacrifice,' even though that's not what it was. I think it's very cute." He smiled wolfishly at Jean-Paul. "Anyway, we're done here. You ready to go?"
"Yes," Jean-Paul said impassively.
Daken agilely climbed out of the grave, and once on solid ground, he extended a hand to help Jean-Paul out as well.
As two walked side by side out of the cemetery into the night, Daken draped a casual arm around Jean-Paul's unresponsive shoulders and used the other hand to hold his cigar as he exhaled smoke rings.
A/N: The end, for real this time. I've had fun, but I think I'll finish my serious stories before writing another trollfic again.
And yes, "by the hoary hosts of Hoggoth" was honestly a catchphrase used in the comics by Dr. Strange. It was created by Stan Lee. Go figure.