A mixed blessing, to be sure.
“Don’ you worry none, Kurt,” Gambit said, cheerfully breaking the nose of a guard who had gotten within striking distance. “You heard Jeannie—de cavalry’s on its way.”
“I do not hear anyone blowing a ‘charge’ on a bugle,” Nightcrawler said sarcastically.
That’s because my parents paid for piano lessons, friend. I could knock out a quick “Mapleleaf Rag ” for you later, if you ’d like.
Kurt broke into a huge grin as he spotted the redhead. Jean! he replied telepathically. Nice of you and Scott to join us! Cutting it a little close, wouldn’t you say?
I thought you liked it that way, Nightcrawler. It was Cyclops; Phoenix had linked their minds for easier communication. A last-minute save is more in line with those movie serials you like to watch on Saturday mornings, isn’t it?
Not when it comes to real life, Nightcrawler replied. I prefer to restrict my clijfhangers to the small screen. He gestured toward the guards, who were pressing their attack. Would the two of you mind. . . ?
Just like a man, Phoenix replied. Always expecting a woman to clean up his mess.
Green eyes flashed, and the guards in the back of the horde suddenly found themselves airborne, bound for Breakstone Lake. Their indignant cries of protest were soon drowned out by the loud splash they made when they hit the water.
If that’s how you feel about things, Cyclops pondered, I’ll start picking up my socks when we get back home. He glanced around quickly, and frowned. After we ’ve managed to restore our home, that is.
Raising the lens of his visor, Cyclops fired a series of short, powerful bursts of energy that scattered the guards like tenpins, tossing them high into the air so that Phoenix could telekinetically grab them on the fly and send them to join their compatriots in the chilly waters. Soon enough, they had cleared a path all the way up to the beleaguered Nightcrawler and Gambit.
“You two all right?” Cyclops asked.
“Better, now dat we seen a friendly face,” Gambit replied, smiling as he looked at Phoenix.
“Hey, that’s my wife, mister,” Cyclops said. Though he didn’t smile, the trace of humor in his voice was quite apparent.
Gambit shrugged. “I’ll keep dat in mind.”
Around the X-Men, the few guards who hadn’t been sent to the showers moaned as they lay on the ground, some dazed, most semiconscious. Arms folded across her chest, Phoenix gazed down at them.
“If any of you are planning to get up to try this again,” she said coolly, “don’t. ”
Wisely, they heeded her advice.
“Looks like I missed out on last call,” said a gruff voice from nearby. The X-Men turned in its direction.
Still pushing the commandant ahead of him, Wolverine entered the main yard. “I didn’t even get to throw any o’ the bums out,” he said, glancing toward the lake.
Phoenix gazed at the scrappy X-Man’s blood-streaked and tattered appearance and frowned. “It looks like you’ve done more than enough for one night, friend.”
Logan smiled grimly. “Ya should see the other guys.”
Phoenix grimaced. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve already had my fair share of seeing the kind of stuff that runs around inside your head.” “Who’s yo’ friend, Wolverine?” Gambit asked.
Logan gave the commandant another shove. “This is the turd responsible fer runnin’ this dump. We were just havin’ a little heart-to-heart about some changes he’s gonna be makin’ around here.” He glanced at the commandant. “Ain’t that right?”
The commandant’s nervous head-shaking seemed to be about the only answer he was capable of giving at the moment.
Logan gazed at Nightcrawler. “See, elf? I can be a reasonable guy ... when I wanna be.”
“For which I am always most grateful, Wolverine,” Kurt replied, though his dark expression made it perfectly clear that he had not forgotten Logan’s earlier actions—or his words.
“Could y’all gimme a hand here?” Rogue asked, as she walked over to join the group. “I’m feelin’ a little .. . well. ..” She gestured toward the remains of her costume; most of it hung in tatters, though some parts, like her gloves and leather jacket, had survived more or less intact.
Not exactly a scandalous appearance, given the costumes worn by some of her female peers in the superhuman community, but the fact that any of her skin had become exposed to the night air seemed to make her incredibly nervous as she approached the X-Men and their charges.
With Rogue, however, her concern didn’t stem from any overwhelming sense of modesty—she’d worn bathing suits that involved far less material than she was wearing at the moment; no, her concern was for the other people around her—and herself. As strong as she was, as invulnerable as her body might be, Rogue’s powers had one disturbing drawback: if her bare skin touched the flesh of any man, woman, or child, she automatically absorbed their thoughts, their memories, even their skills, whether they be as simple as bricklaying or as complicated as a mountain-leveling superpower. The absorption was an unconscious action over which she had absolutely no control, and one that had first manifested itself during her teenage years, while she was kissing a boy.
He was plunged into a coma as a result. The response to the accident had been immediate: Rogue was banished from her community, scorned by even the people who had been her closest friends.
The activation of her powers during such an innocent moment— and the unrelenting feeling of shame that resulted from it—left deep emotional scars on the young woman.
Not surprisingly, it had been a long time since Rogue had a real boyfriend.
She had tried various methods to counteract the unwanted power since that traumatic experience, but the only thing that seemed to negate the process was, simply and amazingly enough, clothing. Thus, always fearful that she might wind up harming someone with the slightest touch—tapping a shoulder, brushing against a bare arm on a busy street—Rogue tended to wrap herself in outfits that did wonders for complimenting her figure, yet nonetheless kept her leech-like abilities from inadvertently coming into play at inopportune moments.
Now, exposed as she was, and as nervous as she seemed—based on the small, furtive glances that she stole at the prisoners who stared at her from behind the other X-Men—it was painfully apparent that Rogue was afraid of the nightmarish memories she might have to “relive” if she came into contact with any of the poor unfortunates they had just rescued.
“Here y’go, chere," Gambit said, stepping forward and removing his duster. He draped it over Rogue’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t want ya t’catch yo’ death.”
“Thanks, Remy,” Rogue said, gratefully pulling the warm leather around her body.
Cyclops gazed around the smoldering camp and saw the fright that was evident in the eyes of the former prisoners; they didn’t seem to know what to expect from these costumed men and women standing before them.
“Thank you,” Cyclops said softly. “For all your help.”
Some of the prisoners murmured responses, but most of them just stood quietly.
Scott.. . Jean’s thoughts “sounded” clearly in his mind. I ran a quick scan of these people, just to see if anyone knew why the school wasn’t here. He glanced at her with concern, and she shook her head slightly. I’m fine. Jean flashed a brief smile. Don’t worry—I’m not going to get caught flatfooted by another psi-wave. But we do need information, and what I found so unusual, though, is that it seems none of them recognize us.
Cyclops turned to face his wife; behind his visor, an eyebrow rose in a quizzical fashion. How could that be possible? I know we’ve always tried to keep a low profile, but considering some of the situations we’ve been involved in, and the way most people react to us just on principle, I’d think at least a few of the prisoners might have started backing away from us “muties. ”
I thought so, too, Jean responded, but that might explain why Carol didn ’t recognize us, either, despite her histor
y with Logan. She gestured toward the prisoners. All I get from their thoughts are confusion and worry and an intense fear that the rescue might be some kind of trick to get their hopes up about finally escaping, and that any second now they ’11 be forced into trucks and transported to another camp.
Another? Nightcrawler’s thoughts interjected. Mein Gott, how many of these godforsaken things are there? And who’s responsible for them?
Phoenix stared at each of her teammates, her features darkening with anger as she provided them with an answer:
“Doctor Doom,” she said aloud.
Wolverine growled softly—a sound which automatically sent a new wave of panic coursing through the commandant. A small puddle formed around his feet.
“All right, we need answers,” said Cyclops. He pointed at the commandant. “And you’re going to provide them.”
7
T WAS a sobering history lesson, to be sure.
“Ten years?” Phoenix asked. “That’s impossible!”
_ The first pink rays of dawn were just edging over Westchester
County as the X-Men and Carol Danvers assembled on the shore of Breakstone Lake, where the soothing beauty of Professor Xavier’s Japanese gardens had once flourished; with the construction of the camp, the ground had been turned into a graveyard for the prisoners who had died while under the care of their cruel hosts. Behind them, under the watchful eye of the now well-armed former inmates, the commandant, his guards, and his soldiers were standing in a circle in their undergarments, setting fire to their uniforms, per Wolverine’s non-negotiable demands. Green-tinged smoke rose high into the early morning sky.
Phoenix looked at each of her teammates; they were all finding it difficult to accept what they had learned first from the commandant, and then from Carol, who had provided a more truthful explanation of how the world of Victor von Doom was run.
“I’ll say it’s impossible,” Rogue said, agreeing with Jean. “We’ve only been away a month, an’ Doom sure wasn’t in charge of the place when we left. An’ for ten years?” She grimaced and shook her head. “Ain’t no way.”
“Could Roma have made a mistake?” Nightcrawler mused aloud. “She did mention before we left that she had not been paying all that much attention to events on our Earth. Perhaps she sent us into a possible future timeline by mistake, or—”
“Or dropped us on an alternate Earth instead?” Cyclops said, completing Kurt’s thought. Nightcrawler nodded in agreement. Scott paused for a moment to mull over the possibility, then shook his head. “I can’t see that happening. Roma would never be that sloppy. And, given her powers, I doubt she’s even capable of making such a monumental error. But, even considering the possibility that such a mistake might have occurred, there still exists a threat to the omniverse—one we already agreed to handle.”
“No argument dere, boss,” Gambit said. “A job’s a job.” He gazed at each of his friends. “I jus’ t’ink we’d all rather know fo’ sure if dis be our world—fo’ peace o’ mind, if nothin’ else. ’Cause if dis is our Earth—” he looked over his shoulder at the camp, then turned back to Cyclops “—den I’d say it’s a whole lot more screwed-up den e’en Roma was thinkin’. An’ if Doc Doom’s involved, it’s fo’ sure we gon’ have some battle on our hands tryin’ t’clean up his mess.” He glanced at Rogue, flashed a brief smile. “He one big ol’ puppy dog to be runnin’ ‘round loose wit’ no proper paper trainin’, y’know.”
Rogue turned her head and raised a hand to her lips, to cover a smile that seemed so . . . disrespectful in such a tragic place. She knew Remy was trying to lighten the mood in the midst of a depressing situation—that was one of the charms that made him so damned appealing to her—but it just didn’t feel right to be laughing when their world was suffering under the oppressive thumb of a madman like Doctor Doom. There’d be time enough for her and Remy to share a laugh or two later, when their work was done—she’d see to it. Suppressing her chuckle by clearing her throat, Rogue turned back to face the group.
“All right,” Cyclops said, “our objectives are clear: we find Doom, discover the means by which he’s transformed the world, and either destroy it or force him to tell us how to shut it down.”
“And just how to you plan to convince him to do that?” Carol asked.
“Leave that t'me, ” Wolverine said, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. For dramatic effect, he popped his claws. Carol’s eyes widened as she stared, momentarily transfixed, by the way the morning sunlight played along the edges of Wolverine’s bio-weapons. “By the time I’m done carvin’ through that leftover Renaissance festival outfit o’ his,” Logan continued, “he’s gonna be hopin’ that all I’m lookin’ for is the shut-off switch, an’ not his heart.”
Carol grimaced as she watched the metal-coated bones slide back into Logan’s arms. “Ooookay,” she croaked, looking a little pale. She quickly turned to Cyclops. “Well, you won’t have to look hard to find him. He and the Queen are living in the White House.”
“Yeah, an’ that’s somethin’ else I don’t understand,” Rogue said. “How is it that Ororo’d be willin’ to marry that tin-plated nut, let alone agree to go rulin’ the world with ’im? I don’t see the connection between ’em.”
“Before yer time, darlin’,” Wolverine replied. “First run-in the new team had with Doom, he invited her t’dinner at his castle upstate while the rest o’ us were dukin’ it out with his goons in the basement. Some foolish attempt t’rescue that grinnin’ jackass, Arcade—the reasons why are too complicated t’get into right now. Least we thought it was a rescue mission; shoulda known better. Turned out to be a flamin’ trap he set up for us with ol’ metalhead.”
Phoenix nodded. “Ororo confided in me about that once. She was . . . embarrassed by how she’d allowed herself to be drawn to Doom’s power and . . . well, charisma, I guess, in the middle of a mission. And although he tried to kill her and our friends, she and Doom parted on civil terms—he even . . .” Jean paused, then shrugged. “Well, from the way Ororo described it, it sounded like Doom was hitting on her.” “Hittin’ on her?” Rogue asked incredulously. “This is Doctor Doom y’all are talkin’ ’bout, right?”
“Well, that’s what it sounded like when Ororo told me,” Jean replied. “He said he found her ‘fascinating,’ and wanted to get to know her better. And Ororo—for some reason—was actually open to the idea, though she never took him up on the offer.”
“Jus’ like a woman, eh?” Gambit quipped. “Say she gon’ call de next day, den never does.”
The icy stares directed his way by Jean, Rogue, and Carol did wonders for wiping the smile off his face.
Nightcrawler turned to Cyclops. “So, Scott, what is our next move?” Cyclops pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, then stood silently for a few moments, considering their options.
“Allies,” he finally said. “We need to find out if there are any heroes in this world still opposed to Doom, and whether they’d be willing to throw in with our lot. Having to take on him and an entire planet under his rule without some back-up—well, let’s just say I don’t like the odds.”
“Good luck to you, pal,” Carol said sarcastically. “You’re certainly gonna need it, considering most of the super-types are working for Doom, and the ones who don’t aren’t gonna want to get involved:” “We’ve got to try anyway,” Cyclops insisted. “If nothing else, we need someone to create enough of a distraction that will allow us to get to Doom directly.”
“Makes sense, if you can actually find someone nuts enough to run interference for you at the risk of having their own head blown off,” Carol said. “I gotta tell you, though, when it comes to costumed types like you folks, the pickings are mighty slim among the ones that are still operating.”
“Well, what about you, Carol?” Phoenix asked.
“What about me?” Carol replied.
“Why can’t you help us? We know how powerful you are as War-bird—you’d certainly be able to hel
p shift the balance in our favor.” Carol stared at Jean as though the X-Man was crazy. “What in God’s name are you talking about? Don’t you think that if I had some kind of powers like you people, I would’ve tom down this suburb of hell a long time ago?” She snorted and waved a hand toward Rogue. “What, are you telling me I can go around benchpressing trucks like her?”
Rogue’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and she quickly turned away from Carol. Although the blond-haired woman didn’t recognize her now, Rogue was all too aware of the past they shared: of how Carol, in the pre-Doom-ruled world, had been a super heroine named Ms. Marvel, and Rogue had been a member of an organization called the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants; of how Rogue, following the orders of the Brotherhood’s leader, Mystique, had ambushed Carol one night in San Francisco and used her powers to leech away not only her cosmic-spawned powers, but part of her psyche, leaving her body a nearly empty shell; and of how, after draining her enemy, Rogue had tossed her off the Golden Gate Bridge in an attempt to kill her. Though Carol had eventually recovered both her mind and her powers—a slow, painful process that took years—and changed her super heroic codename to the more aggressive Warbird, she had never forgiven Rogue for stealing away her individuality, and could barely stand to be within spitting distance of her former adversary to this day.
“Carol,” Phoenix said softly, “I’d like to try something, with your permission. I’m a telepath—”
Carol’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “You’re a mento?”
Phoenix started. “A what?”
Nearby, Gambit turned to Rogue. “I t’ought dat was some kinda candy,” he whispered. -
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